


Working Backwards

by worldofmydevising



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Fluff, Greg has a dog, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mycroft has slight food issues, Mycroft is a little dense, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Slooowwww, Slow Burn, but angst before that, marriage law, newlyweds, they both are
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-05-25 21:55:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 40,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14986415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worldofmydevising/pseuds/worldofmydevising
Summary: Mycroft Holmes has long resigned himself to a quiet life as a bachelor, until an unexpected political manoeuvre lands him in the unfortunate position of having to pick a spouse...in a week. So he propositions Greg Lestrade, who accepts. The men try to build a future together, but a marriage without a strong foundation is a difficult thing to keep afloat.





	1. A Truth Universally Acknowledged

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the numerous Harry Potter Marriage Law fics, back in the Days of Yore.

If someone had told Mycroft Holmes twenty-four hours previously—nay, _ten bloody minutes_ —that he was to be betrothed to another by the end of the week, he’d have had the offending person removed promptly and forcibly from his office. ‘Mycroft Holmes’ and ‘married’ were not words that belonged in the same sentence. 

Unfortunately, calling upon security to have his superior ejected from the room would be unseemly.

Mycroft turned an icy gaze upon Stephen Hanover and his perfectly-coiffed hair. He wanted to grasp it by the roots and rip out a good handful, or at least have somebody do it for him.To Hanover’s credit, he didn’t flinch. Whether that indicated bravery or a foolish inability to read body language, Mycroft didn’t know. 

“The North Koreans,” Hanover breathed, “have announced their intention to strike up some _godforsaken_ ‘allyship’ by arranging marriages between their people and our own. Any member of the British government who isn’t married within the week is fair game.”

Mycroft was furious. “Then I resign!” His eyes were blazing, and Hanover took a step away from the mahogany desk. Mycroft’s nails had left claw-marks in the polished wood. 

“The resignation will take ten days to process—” Hanover broke off, sensing Mycroft’s heightening wrath. He glanced apologetically at his subordinate. “And our eligible civilians are also to be wed to the North Koreans. The news is breaking to-morrow.” 

By this point, Mycroft was half-tempted to call security anyway. Let them think what they wanted…being pressured into an engagement was a violation of at least four civil rights laws, and that only included the ones he’d bothered to memorise. This was the most imbecilic negotiation strategy he’d ever had the misfortune to hear, let alone _be subjected to._

He took a deep breath, willing his blood pressure to return to some semblance of normal. “And this utter farce of an allyship is proceeding under threat of…?”

“Nuclear war,” said Hanover, without missing a beat. 

Mycroft barely managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes. _Of course._

Hanover continued, businesslike. “It would be in your best interest _not_ to submit to the marriage they’ve arranged with this—“ here he consulted his clipboard, dragging his finger down the page until he located Mycroft’s name, “—Miss Lee Min-seo.” 

Mycroft wanted to retch. He imagined himself in a garish suit, painfully exchanging vows at the altar with a vapid Miss Lee Min-seo _._ He imagined a lifetime of hyphenated names. Mycroft Holmes-Lee, married to Mrs Holmes-Lee Min-seo. His eyes widened in horror. Surely he wouldn’t be forced to _procreate_ with Lee Min-seo…? No. _No. Nonononono._

“Mycroft!” said Hanover sharply. “Please listen. As I was saying, you won’t be eligible for marriage to a Korean official if you’re married to someone by the end of the week.” He softened slightly. “Have you got a significant other? An old flame, perhaps? Every unmarried person in London over the age of thirty is scrambling to find someone—I daresay it won’t be that difficult…” 

Hanover raked his gaze critically over Mycroft’s person, pausing at his waistline. Mycroft flushed, reminded uncomfortably of Sherlock, and straightened in his chair. 

“I will sort it out,” he said coldly. He addressed his assistant, who’d been working quietly in a corner of the room. “Anthea, would you please locate the woman I’m to be engaged to, and kindly tell her that I will unfortunately not be attending our wedding. Give her my best regards.” Anthea nodded, and quickly tapped out a few sentences on her BlackBerry. 

“Done, sir. Would you like to view the message before I send it?” Mycroft shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

_What a day._

Hanover coolly wished Mycroft the best of luck, handing him a list of all the partners who’d been deemed suitable matches for a high-ranking official in the British government. He swept out of the room. The scent of hair-product lingered, and Mycroft jabbed the window open as if it had mortally offended him. Mycroft watched as Anthea typed studiously on her BlackBerry with two manicured thumbs, and his eyes locked onto the diamond ring on her left hand. 

_Of course he was the only person in the office who now had to clamour for a spouse._

He flipped idly through the list Hanover had left him. Some of the names were familiar to him. Ellen Pearson, daughter of the esteemed political magnate Leonard Pearson, smirked at him from the page. Her meeting with Mycroft had been brief, but the woman had been tolerable. Nancy Weiss, who’d built a fashion empire from scratch. A pleasant girl, but Mycroft couldn’t imagine waking next to her. He couldn’t imagine wanting to share a life with any of these people. Sighing, Mycroft put the list away. He could deal with this at a later date, preferably with a stiff drink at hand. 

As he stepped out of the building with Anthea, a horrifying thought occurred to him.

 _What was going to happen to_ Sherlock _?_

Sitting heavily in the car, Mycroft slid his phone out of his front pocket, and then thought better of it. If Sherlock found out, the tantrum he’d throw was sure to alert all of London, and Mycroft would rather deal with that debacle from the safety of his office, or perhaps an iron bunker. This was not a situation where one took chances. 

“Anthea,” he started. “Would you please take me to Scotland Yard?” 

She immediately steered the vehicle into a U-turn. The wheels screeched just the slightest amount, and Mycroft could have sworn he caught the barest glimpse of an upturned mouth in the dashboard mirror. Not for the last time, Mycroft reflected on how lucky he’d been to land Anthea as a PA. 


	2. Send in the Clowns

Mycroft prepared his speech from the backseat. 

_Start with the bleak worldview, and then offer a solution. Sweeten the deal._

Drawing a fountain pen from his suit pocket, Mycroft tapped it idly against his palm, thinking. A notepad was produced silently from the front seat, and Mycroft accepted it with a murmured word of thanks. He started to write.

  1. Inform Lestrade of Marriage Law
  2. Commiserate with him over shared circumstances—i.e. doom.



Frowning, Mycroft crossed that last part out. It wasn’t becoming to embrace melodrama, even in his own mind. He added another point.

     3. Propose marriage.

a) We are largely compatible with each other in age, temperament and occupation.

b) Marriage is a given, so better the devil you know than the one you don’t.

c) The benefits afforded to a spouse of his were generous. Lestrade would be well taken-care of. 

Satisfied, Mycroft sat back in his leather seat with a smirk. He checked his reflection in the glass. He’d never turned heads, not even as a younger man, but he supposed he was what one might deem ‘stately’. The tailoring on his bespoke Armani suit was impeccable, as usual. Mycroft ran his fingers over his lapel, savouring the coolness of the silk. 

_Still. An engagement is a special occasion. Very well, then._

He carefully undid his customary red tie and replaced it with one that was just a shade brighter. It had been threaded through with gold, and it glittered just enough to catch the eye—although not so much as to be ostentatious.

Mycroft stepped out of the car with a final glance in the mirrored window and entered New Scotland Yard. He swept past the front desk, pausing only long enough to see the look of recognition on the receptionist’s face, and knocked on the door of D.I. Gregory Lestrade. 

* * *

 Greg answered the knock at once, looking mildly surprised. He noticed the tie; Mycroft saw his gaze catch just below his collarbone. Smiling, Greg invited him to take a seat. He rummaged around in a tin on his desk, long enough for Mycroft to cast an appreciative glance at his profile. The man was as rakishly handsome as a policeman could be and he didn’t even seem to know it, Mycroft thought.

Greg found the custard-cream he’d been looking for, and offered it to Mycroft with a grin. Mycroft declined graciously, and Lestrade didn’t hesitate to pop it into his own mouth. He looked nearly rapturous, and Mycroft took a second to admire how the man delighted in so simple a pleasure. Although perhaps custard-creams did merit Lestrade’s expression of bliss—they were Mycroft’s favourites, as well. 

“So,” Greg said around a mouthful of biscuit. “What brings you here? Sherlock’s usually the one looking for me, except for the time you sent Ed to kidnap me to meet you in an abandoned theme park.” His black eyes sparkled. “I’m glad you knocked this time, abduction is _not_ usually how I prefer to travel.”

Mycroft didn’t quite know what to say. Sherlock’s merry band of misfits tended to have that effect on him. He settled for, “Who…is Ed?”

“You know, that bloke who drives you and your kidnap-victims around. Anthea’s car-partner. You don’t mean to tell me you haven't even bothered to learn his name?” Greg’s tone was light, but his words held more than a grain of truth. Mycroft _didn’t_ know the names of a number of his staff—there were simply too many of them—but as it happened he did know the name of his chauffeur. Somehow it seemed important that Greg understood this.

“Ah, Edward. He’s on leave of absence right now, but I’m sure he’ll be gratified to hear that you remember him.” Mycroft took a deep breath, willing his heart to pound a little less loudly. 

“Inspector Lestrade, I’ve come here today to discuss a matter of great import with you.”

Greg looked at him curiously. “Yeah? What’s Sherlock got himself into, this time?”

“It isn’t Sherlock. It’s the North Korean government—they’ve passed a bill for a marriage law, and I heard about the majority vote only this afternoon. Every person in London over the age of thirty is to be married to a North Korean citizen by the end of the week if they don’t already have a spouse.”

Greg’s fingers dragged down the sides of his face. “This is madness!”

Mycroft nodded grimly. “Madness indeed, Inspector. But I fear our say in the matter is quite limited. Like it or not, we’re all going to be married by next Sunday.”

Greg sat completely still, his expression the very picture of despair. He’d been divorced not a year _._ It was hard enough picking pieces of what had been his life off the ground on his own. He’d _just_ resigned himself to life as a lonely, middle-aged man. The flat had been bought and furnished. Greg had discovered that if he wasn’t exactly happy watching re-runs of bad reality television on his dingy couch, pint of Guinness in hand, that he could at least manage. And managing was underrated in the eyes of the rest of the world, as far as he was concerned. Better managing than alone in a house he _presumably_ shared with his goddamn _presumable_ wife. Never mind that she’d rarely slept in it after the wedding, preferring instead to seek solace in the arms of anyone-but-him. Better managing than another _fucking_ Lisa. Greg sighed. He didn’t know where it had all gone wrong, but he _did_ know that he wasn’t about to repeat that nightmare if he had any say in the matter. Except it seemed that he didn’t, now. 

Mycroft’s next words struck him to the bone. 

“I propose that you and I get married.” 

Greg’s laughter sounded hysterical even to his own ears. “ _Married?_ You’ve got to be kidding me. No. No way.” 

Mycroft drew back a quarter-inch. He’d expected relief, maybe surprise. Perhaps grudging acceptance, or hesitation. He hadn’t expected an outright rejection, especially given the circumstances. 

“Might I ask why?” he asked, guarded. “If not me, it’ll be someone else. We are already acquainted, and we’re capable of working well with each other. It needn’t be anything more than a mutual arrangement.”

“But you don’t love me,” said Greg. “Isn’t that what a marriage is?”

“Usually, it would seem,” said Mycroft. “But we no longer have the privilege of time, and love is perhaps an outdated concept that is given far too much weight by the average star-struck teenager. All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. You must have learned that, in your own marriage.”

He paused, studying Greg’s face. 

“I can offer you respect. You are a decent enough man, Inspector, and the benefits afforded by my career are numerous. You would be given everything you could want.”

The vitriol in Greg’s voice took both of them by surprise. “This is _exactly_ why I won’t marry you. You don't know a thing about respect, or you wouldn’t have marched in here without so much as a warning, calling me ‘ _decent enough_ ’—” and _expecting me to marry you at the drop of a hat._ I’m not going to be some _toy,_ building my life around yours. I’m a person, too.”

Mycroft was taken aback. “You realize that you’ll be subject to the law, anyway.”

Greg turned away. “Better that than…this.”

Mycroft felt his temper start to flare. “We haven’t got time,” he raged. “You have a week, and this is the best offer you’re going to get. It’ll be a marriage in name only, and you’re free to pursue whoever you like in your own time. I’m doing you a favour, Inspector.”

“But I don’t _want_ to.” Greg said steadily.

“What—do—you—want?” Mycroft bit out. “You can’t be expecting you’ll be _courted.”_

The look on Greg’s face was all the answer Mycroft needed. Twin patches of color bloomed on his cheeks, and he lifted his chin. 

“My apologies, Mr Holmes, but I have my own matters to attend to.” His voice was steely. “If you would please excuse me.” 

Mycroft strode out of the office, umbrella swinging. The door closed with a cold _click_ , and Gregory Lestrade sat behind it with his head in his hands.

Fuming, Mycroft made his way out of the frosted glass doors and into the waiting car. He tore off the _stupid_ tie and flung it onto the seat behind him. 

“Anthea, if you would be so kind as to take me home.” 

The last time Mr Holmes had been this upset, the country had nearly fallen in the week he’d spent by his brother’s bedside. As it was, a number of banks had gone out of business and word was that the stock market still hadn’t recovered. Anthea was concerned, but she’d never be so remiss as so say anything. It wouldn’t do her employer any good—best to quietly do as asked. Nevertheless, she offered him a cigarette and an extra cushion. 

Mycroft smoked in stony silence the entire way home, and offered Anthea as curt a good-bye as she’d heard from him in years. 

 


	3. Change of Heart

Mycroft paced the floor of his living room, smoking furiously. Lestrade was endlessly foolish. He had prioritised sentiment over pragmatism, and he would regret it in a week. Why wouldn't he just see reason? 

Jamming the cigarette into an ashtray with a touch more vigour than necessary, Mycroft sank down onto the sofa. 

He was rather more upset than he’d anticipated. 

_Wherein lies the problem. You neglected to anticipate these circumstances at all—you made a grievous miscalculation. You are experiencing negative affect, borne of the sting of rejection and compounded by the unexpected nature of the situation._

A smaller voice sounded in his mind. 

_And it hurts because you liked Lestrade. You’re attracted to him, and so you took the rejection personally._

Surely that couldn’t be possible. Mycroft was well past the age of mindless infatuation. He was forty-five, for goodness’ sake. This was not a _crush._ The very thought was laughable. He’d simply thought that Lestrade would be a compatible and willing companion. It smarted because he’d been wrong, and that was a very unusual occurrence for Mycroft Holmes. It was normal, that he’d reacted so negatively. _That was all._ He would find someone else, someone just as likely to leave his life as intact as he could hope for, and everything would be right again. There was any number of people in London looking for the same thing Mycroft was—he had a whole list of them, in fact. 

At the end of all this, his life would be largely unchanged, Mycroft reassured himself. Minorly inconvenienced, at worst. 

Taking strength in this sentiment, he messaged Anthea to ask for the list of suitors. It came within seconds, and he found himself skipping down the alphabet, over all the heiresses, barons and captains—their powdered faces smiling thinly at him from the page—straight through the ‘C’s and across the ‘J’s, until he came across a familiar merry grin. Mycroft found himself unable to look away from those crinkled eyes…that boyish smile. 

Perhaps he’d been unfair to Lestrade. Committment, even if forced, was obviously not something the man took lightly. It was not outside the realm of expectation for him to expect some genuine feeling from the person he was to marry. Lestrade was a genuine man who put his heart into everything he did, and that was commendable. A family man. The person who did marry him would be immensely fortunate…his ex-wife must have been an imbecile. 

Mycroft felt that he did quite like Gregory Lestrade, with his open expression and custard-creams and the tinge of Cockney in his accent. He thought that he could be happy with him—and bring him happiness in return—if he wanted to. If Lestrade would let him.

Mycroft hesitated for a minute, and then deleted the photograph of the list. His finger hovered above the blue call button under Gregory Lestrade’s name. Before he could convince himself to do otherwise, it had been pressed.  

Lestrade answered after a few rings, sounding surprisingly subdued. 

“Mycroft? Look, I’ve been thinking—” exactly as Mycroft said, “Inspector Lestrade, I owe you an apology.”

They both paused, until Greg said finally, “You go first.” 

Mycroft spoke as sincerely as he knew how. “Inspector… _Gregory_ ,” the word was laced with meaning, “I was mistaken in my behaviour earlier, and in the delivery of my proposition. I was inconsiderate of your feelings. At no point did I intend to insinuate that you would be my property, or that I would hold no genuine feeling towards you.”

Here Mycroft nearly stopped, suddenly nervous. If he continued, he wouldn’t ever be able to go back.

He went on, with much effort. “If you would be amenable to reconsidering, I think a proper courtship could be arranged…it would be my pleasure. I assure you that I will do my best. Given the limitations on time, it would be _after_ the requisite documentation was filed. However, I think you will find my every effort sincere.” 

He _nearly_ asked the question, and then remembered that this was a phone-call, and that Lestrade—Gregory—was certain to be unimpressed. 

“Perhaps you would give me the pleasure of your company after work to-morrow,” he recovered, and the phone started to tremble in Mycroft’s hand. 

“Mycroft…I did reconsider, after you left. You were right about no one having the time to build a relationship before we’re all forced into marriages. But that’s important to me…y’know, not just—jumping into the first thing that comes along because it’s convenient. Do you even _like_ me?” Across the line, Greg’s voice held steady.

“Of course.” Mycroft didn’t know why Greg had even bothered to ask. Wasn’t it obvious? He’d hardly run around proposing marriage to someone he _disliked._

“No, I mean—do you like-like me. Circle yes or no.” 

Mycroft had no idea what the man was on about. He didn’t know where this circle was, but he did know that he liked Gregory both romantically and as a friend. 

“I do like you.” 

Greg breathed in deeply. “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow, then. _Christ,_ it’s like being seventeen again…outside my office? I’ll be off late, with the marriage law, and I wager you will be too…but I’ll text you when I’m done and we can talk for a bit. Sounds good?”

Across the line, Mycroft smiled. “Sounds good. Good-night, Gregory.” 

“Good-night, Mycroft.” A pause. “Sweet dreams.” 

Mycroft choked, and quickly disguised it as a cough. With some effort, he repeated the sentiment, and then the line clicked off. 

It looked like he was to marry Gregory Lestrade after all. Certainly things would be interesting. 

A thought hit Mycroft, and he groaned aloud. To-morrow would be an _absolutely hellish_ day at work, and it was unlikely to get much better afterwards _._ Not to mention that he had—he checked his watch—twenty-one hours to procure a suitable engagement ring and figure out what _exactly_ a proposal entailed. And then to _actually propose._

He shuddered, and headed for the liquor cabinet. Very rarely did he indulge to the point of true inebriation, but if any occasion called for it—this one did. 


	4. Brother Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone reading this - and an especial thank you to anyone who's left kudos or a comment! <3 It's been delightful, and sets my heart a-flutter. I really, really appreciate it! Feel free to point out clunky language or other mistakes, and I'll do my best to fix them.  
> With love,  
> worldofmydevising

 News of the Marriage Law broke around England at exactly seven in the morning on Monday. Mycroft had been awake since five, waiting with increasing dread as the time drew near. He’d idly penned a few preliminary statements and made phone calls to various jurisdictions—mostly damage mitigation and witness protection. Certainly the North Koreans had goals that extended beyond a campaign promoting love. Mycroft couldn’t be sure, but he imagined North Korea would take this opportunity to gather whatever intelligence they could. He would really rather that not happen, given the ease with which they’d managed to strong-arm Britain into this absurd scheme in the first place. 

Although all that would reveal itself to be taken care of in due time, and he was unlikely to be immediately involved. Presently Mycroft found himself concerned foremost with Sherlock. He’d expected a text sometime around six o’clock, but nothing had come. 

_Brother mine, you must be slipping. Do try to keep ahead, lest your overconfidence endangers you._

Mycroft worried for Sherlock. It generally seemed to him as though John Watson would be his brother’s undoing, but every so often the tables would turn and he looked as though he might be the key to Sherlock’s salvation instead. He had no way of being certain, but he _did_ know that his brother would throw a massive temper tantrum if Mycroft were to separate him from Dr. Watson. So Mycroft had chosen to let it be, for now. Let Sherlock make his own mistakes and find his own way in the world. 

The minute hand drew slowly closer to the top of Mycroft’s pocket watch. Text messages started to creep in, informing him about little leaks or minor mishaps. Nothing from Sherlock. 

Gregory had left a voice-message.

“Hey, Mycroft…just wanted to wish you good luck today. Try not to drown under the paperwork, yeah? All of Scotland Yard is with you in spirit.”

Mycroft smiled as he heard it, imagining Gregory Lestrade speaking blearily into his phone, eyes clouded with sleep. It was…strangely endearing, to know that Gregory had woken and thought of him. Mycroft responded immediately, wishing the inspector well under his own mountain of red tape.

Gregory sent back a smiley face with its tongue out. Mycroft laughed aloud, and replied with a regular smiley face. Then he froze in horror as his phone autocorrected it to a hideous…blushing yellow face. The thing was _winking._

_*:), my apologies. They neglected to inform_

_me when that yellow monstrosity took up residence_

_in my mobile phone._

_-M_

_No worries…theyre called emoji. Learned_

_all about them last year when my niece_

_got her first phone…inbox was full of_

_unicorns for a summer :P_

Still smiling, Mycroft closed the message thread. Back to work, even if the intricacies of emoji seemed infinitely more interesting at the moment…which really only served to show how much he didn’t want to be dealing with Marriage Law fallout.

Finally seven o’clock came, and Mycroft’s phone came alight with hundreds of messages from members of the cabinet, Korean government officials, newspaper companies—everyone who held a stake in the law was now clamoring for his attention. 

Silence from 221B Baker Street. 

Mycroft replied to the few messages of import he’d received and made the requisite phone calls. So far the situation seemed to be largely under control, for which he was incredibly grateful. Lives would be upturned, but arranged or forced marriages were as old as time. The country would not fall, and Mycroft heaved a sigh of relief.

It was now half an hour since the uproar had started, and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. The last thing Mycroft wanted to do was make his concern apparent, but it would seem that he’d been left without a choice. 

He pressed ‘1’, and held it down. Sherlock answered on the penultimate ring. Purely to exasperate Mycroft, he imagined. 

“Sherlock,” he said sharply. “Have you heard the news?”

The phone call’s poor quality did nothing to temper the contempt in Sherlock’s tone.

“He did it with the chopsticks, and as for the diamonds—that was petty theft, and _boring._ ”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “The Marriage Law, Sherlock—or have the international headlines escaped your notice?”

“Oh, that,” said Sherlock, disdain evident. “They’re using it as a smoke-screen to distract from illegal and inefficient drug testing in Pyongyang, and if you’d only bothered to _observe_ you’d have seen that the ploy is completely transparent. It won’t work, by the way, not unless your men are fool enough to spend the entire day guarding against intelligence leaks, _you_ wed the defense minister they picked out, or precisely eighty-seven pet birds escape from London before the next week—in which case the country will have proven itself fool enough to _deserve_ being taken down.” All of this was said very quickly in one scornful breath, and Mycroft was sorely tempted to just cut the call and let Sherlock figure out his own marital arrangements. He didn’t offer Sherlock the moment of stunned silence he knew his brother delighted in eliciting.

“Be that as it may, it can’t have escaped your notice that you’re eligible for an arranged marriage under the Act. Have you thought about what you’re going to do?” 

Sherlock was ecstatic. “Could this _possibly_ be brotherly concern, my dear Mycroft? Thank you for calling, dearest brother, but if you’d bothered to pay attention at all my decision would have been long evident.”

Mycroft frowned for a moment, calculating, and then the penny dropped.

“You don’t mean to say...John Watson...the man is straight as an arrow, for goodness’ sake.” Sherlock couldn’t be serious.

“And he looks at things on a case-by-case basis. Says so on his website.”

Mycroft decided he didn’t want to know. Whether Sherlock and John would shortly be ensconced in marital bliss or headed straight for the divorce of the century was none of his concern. He would pick up the pieces, but otherwise Sherlock was an adult and well capable of making his own choices. Fool though they might be.

“Give John my congratulations. I wish you both well.”

Sherlock hung up without so much as a good-bye. Mycroft sighed and delegated a team to figure out what exactly was going on in Pyongyang. He considered for a second, and then sent out a nationwide memo about bird escapes. Couldn’t hurt. 

* * *

Minutes later, a peal of laughter rang loudly through Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes and his doctor wiped delighted tears from their eyes, and John Watson handed his flatmate and recent fiancé a fiver.


	5. With This Ring

Mycroft sat at his desk in Whitehall, highly put out. Edward, his chauffeur, had been on leave for two weeks while he attended to a family emergency. An unexpected death, if Mycroft recalled correctly.  He’d chosen to-day of all days to send word that he would not be returning. Mycroft sent Anthea to his home with a gift basket, trying not to scowl. Edward had been a competent and pleasant member of his staff, and he would be missed. Even if he had execrable timing. 

Mycroft considered. He’d have to find a replacement driver, given that Anthea had already been covering double duty for a fortnight. It would be difficult. All members of his staff were thoroughly vetted and put through a number of background checks, and his chauffeur in particular had to have an immaculate record in combination with a medical background. Not many doctors in London went on to become personal drivers—the only person he could think of that might consider it was John Watson, and his time was otherwise occupied. Still, perhaps the doctor would have an idea. One of his colleagues, perhaps. Mycroft sent him a text to ask.

At least the ulterior motive behind the Marriage Law had been sorted out, Mycroft thought sourly. The morning had been hectic, but everyone appeared to be holding up reasonably. All of England (and the world) was outraged, of course, but there was currently an odd kinship among every unmarried adult in London that wouldn’t be seen again for years to come. By making marriage compulsory, North Korea had only succeeded in diminishing its meaning. Mycroft had checked the stock market, purely out of curiosity, and found that formalwear and jewellry retailers weren’t doing nearly as well as one might have expected. The people of London were striking back; Mycroft suspected that at least nine tenths of them would have mysteriously procured partners by the end of the week. 

Mycroft glanced at his watch. It was nearing three in the afternoon, and everything he’d needed to do in the office had been completed. Gregory would be finished at about seven or eight, he suspected, depending on whether Sergeant Donovan had been among the age group affected by the Marriage Law. Best to make a conservative estimate—that gave Mycroft three hours in which to settle his affairs. 

First, to procure a ring. Regardless of the manner in which his marriage had come about, Mycroft intended to offer it every respect. Gregory had made it evident that he expected as much. It would be crass to whisk the Detective Inspector away for an abrupt wedding at the courthouse without giving him so much as a token of sincerity, especially when Mycroft was more than capable of affording one. He’d meant it, when he said Gregory would have everything Mycroft could give him. After all, they were to be partners, and partners provided for each other. 

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, considering. The Holmeses were an old family, and possessed any number of heirloom rings he might give Gregory. A number of them might suit his taste—Mycroft recalled being rather taken with a jet-black design hewn from onyx as a child. He imagined that Gregory would like something simple and classic, maybe with a hint of sentiment. Something fitting that description would be easy to find amidst the Holmes family’s many treasures. 

Only Gregory seemed to be a proud man, and it would perhaps be remiss to gift him something quite so expensive at this stage. Anything Mycroft procured from his family would be well beyond the means of Gregory Lestrade, and it would cast the chasm between the men into stark relief. 

Very well, then. He would have to be creative. 

Mycroft remembered seeing a new jeweller around the corner from the Diogenes. The designs had caught his eye—classy, but also creative. They’d been surprisingly inexpensive, considering their quality. There was a certain _je ne sais quoi_ about each piece in the shop, but he’d dismissed it without further thought. He was a single man in his forties…he had no need for jewellry. He’d dragged himself away from the shop that day, but he had yearned to step inside and run his fingers over the cool metal. To watch as the colourful gems glinted in the morning light. As a child, Mycroft had revelled in his mother’s jewellry box. He still had fond memories of afternoons spent in the parlour, a rainbow of patterns and textures spread out on the glass table before him. He’d held the pieces against his skin, one at a time, marveling as the stones warmed with his heat. Mycroft’s favourite had been a moonstone pendant that had seemed to glow milkily in his palm. Translucent and mysterious, he’d believed that it held the secrets to the universe, or at least to a day’s happiness. Mycroft had always loved beauty. 

He summoned Anthea, who was at his elbow in seconds. It was a close enough walk that he could easily have gone on his own, but he imagined another opinion would prove valuable.

The storefront was just as he remembered it—a clean white facade, with themed display cases in the window. The four seasons in one corner...fairytales in another. Birds and butterflies and all manner of pretty bright things. Mycroft’s breath caught as he took it all in, and he stepped eagerly through the door.

An elderly man stood behind the register. He greeted Mycroft and Anthea in a lilting voice before introducing himself as the proprietor.  “My name is Tomas—what will you be looking for to-day?” 

“An engagement ring,” said Mycroft, before adding, “Your wares are beautiful, sir. I’ve lived in London for most of my life, and your establishment stands out from anything else I’ve seen in the city.”

Tomas’s face lit up at the compliment. “These stones are my life’s work…I studied lapidary in County Cork, and moved here to start a shop with my daughter. The designs are all hers.” He turned and called, “Ivy! Would you please help our customers select a ring?” 

A young woman stepped out from the back room. The family resemblance was clear, Mycroft noted, except she had fiery red curls in contrast to her father’s snow-white hair.  It had been pulled back neatly, but a wisp of fringe sprang free even as he watched. Mycroft was reminded suddenly of his mother, in her youth. 

The girl bowed with a little flourish, grinning. Another curl escaped her updo. “Ivy Keating, at your service.” 

Mycroft had heard the slight catch in Anthea’s breath as Ivy appeared, and he shot his assistant a sharp look.

Anthea recovered her composure immediately, and smoothly said, “Miss Keating, if you’d be so kind as to show us your engagement rings.” She adjusted her collar. Was Mycroft imagining the flush of colour in her cheeks? 

Tomas looked at Mycroft and Anthea, calculating. “Something simple, I think…perhaps from our autumn collection.” 

Even as Mycroft hurriedly introduced Anthea as his assistant, Tomas said thoughtfully, “And you might show them our Pride collection, as well.” 

Ivy led them first to a small display near the front of the store. Autumn, Mycroft deduced, as he took in the reddish hues. 

“So,’ Ivy said brightly. “What’s your partner like? Maybe you could show me a picture.” 

Mycroft realised with a flash of embarrassment that he had neither a photograph nor a description of Gregory Lestrade’s true character at hand. 

“He’s very kind,” Mycroft started. “Passionate. A gentleman,” he said lamely. He couldn’t think of anything else. 

Anthea took pity on her employer, and reached out to pluck the only band from the display that had not been tinted with red. She held it out towards Mycroft, and he took it gratefully. It was solid, but not heavy. The ring was a smoky grey—so dark it was nearly black. 

“Tungsten,” he said, and Ivy nodded. Mycroft ran his finger across the metal, and was surprised to find that it had been engraved. He hadn’t noticed a design. Ivy motioned him to hold the ring up to the light. Mycroft saw the minute laser-engraved Celtic knots first, followed by two hands, and finally the crowned heart in their grasp. 

_A Claddagh ring. Love, loyalty and friendship._

It was perfect _._

Ivy was quick to understand the implications of the look on her customer’s face, and she winked at Anthea. Anthea studiously kept her face straight. 

“Mr. Holmes, I think I have something else that might suit,” said Ivy. She whisked the pair over to another display. It contained so many rainbows that a genuine one had formed in the space in front of the case. 

“Oh dear,” said Ivy, and nudged a bracelet slightly to the left. “Third time today. The sun keeps ending up in the exact wrong place…pretty, but the glare goes out the window. Dogs keep stopping to bark.” 

Mycroft computed the angles quickly, and carefully placed the offending article within the case’s three-inch sweet spot. 

“There,” he said. “If you keep it right behind that necklace, the light won’t reflect off it.” 

Ivy smiled widely. “You’re a lifesaver.” 

Anthea cringed inwardly at the overly familiar tone this girl had taken with her employer, but she couldn’t help feeling intrigued as well. Somehow Ivy Keating managed to come across more endearing than impudent, and Mr. Holmes hadn’t so much as looked down his nose at her. Mr. Holmes looked down his nose at _everyone._ Granted, she usually only saw him interact with colleagues, his brother and Sherlock’s odd acquaintance…Anthea imagined her nose would also be subjected to much looking-down, if she and Mr. Holmes ever had the opportunity to trade lives. Noticing the curious look Ivy was currently shooting her, Anthea stopped thinking about noses and snapped back to attention. 

Ivy had handed Mycroft what looked at first to be an exact replica of the Claddagh band he’d admired earlier. He held this one to the sun, and a rainbow winked at him from the minuscule engraving. 

“It’s been clad with titanium,” explained Ivy. “Very difficult to do, but you’ve got to admit it’s gorgeous.” 

“Indeed,” agreed Mycroft. He held the ring tightly. He’d fallen in love with another tungsten band in the collection, one with tiny crystals arranged in the colors of a rainbow on its back—but this one was _Gregory._ The other had been rather too flashy for the Detective Inspector, even with the gems hidden. He gave it a last look, longing, before turning away and handing the Claddagh ring to Ivy. 

“I’ll take this one, please.” 

Ivy led them back to the counter, where Tomas beamed happily at them as he rang up the purchase.

“It’s rare that I appreciate the pieces without stones, but this one—this is one of my favourites. It doesn’t _need_ anything. Good luck, sir, and I hope your partner likes it. Please visit again, it was a pleasure.”

“The pleasure was mine,” returned Mycroft, before stepping back out into the crowded street. Behind him, Anthea replaced the ring she’d slipped off her left hand and tucked a slip of paper neatly into her purse. Mycroft caught the action, but said nothing. Perhaps his assistant’s marriage had been arranged against her will—it was not unheard of. 

* * *

Mycroft waited anxiously outside New Scotland Yard, sweat beading on his brow. He wiped it with a silk handkerchief, trying to keep his hands steady. 

_Don’t be absurd. You’ve done this before._

Somehow the thought was far from reassuring. _Because it went_ swimmingly _the last time._

He patted down his suit, nervous. It had been newly pressed—the creases were still warm. Mycroft untied his tie, and then tied it again. Once, twice…thrice. The red one from yesterday. He jammed his hands in his coat pockets, telling himself he’d wrinkle the tie if he kept fussing with it. Vetiver, sage and lemongrass wafted through the air, and Mycroft wondered if he’d overdone the cologne. He’d only used a spritz, but then this one had been new—a Christmas gift from Anthea. Mycroft sighed. It was barely Janurary, and _already_ the world was falling apart before his eyes. 

Then Gregory Lestrade was striding across the parking lot, coat billowing in the brisk winter air, and Mycroft’s mind went uncharacteristically blank.


	6. Beginnings

“Hi,” offered Greg tentatively. “How was your day? Sorry it’s so late…my inbox is so full they’ve started stacking paperwork on the floor in front of it. Can’t imagine what it must be like for you…must be awful.”

Mycroft looked at the man who was soon to be his betrothed, assuming nothing went awry. He was wearing a fresh shirt and trousers, both of which had been newly pressed that morning but now bore the trademark creases of cloth folded and relegated to a briefcase for the greater part of a day. Gregory smelled of his usual blend—musk, leather and cigarette smoke—but there was something else, something Mycroft had smelled before…

Mycroft sorted through his mental catalogue of fragrances, and settled upon Bvlgari Pour Homme. He’d had Anthea re-gift a bottle two years prior, likely the one Gregory had used today was one and the same. Its top notes of cardamom and tobacco blossom had long faded, and mostly Mycroft’s practised nose now detected ginger, teak and juniper. 

So Gregory _was_ nervous, so much that he’d prepared a change of clothes and brought out cologne he applied seldom enough that it had lasted years, but not enough to have used a garment bag or re-applied the fragrance before leaving his office. About on par with Mycroft himself, then.

He realized at length that Gregory would still be waiting for an answer, and quickly snapped back to reality. 

“It was less busy than expected, all things considered. Nevertheless, I find myself glad to be finished with the day’s work. Have you had the chance to have dinner, yet?” asked Mycroft.

“Yeah—Sally got us some take-out from the Chinese place next door. You ever had it? We can stop by, if you’re hungry…”

Mycroft didn’t think he’d ever had a takeaway in his _life._

“Maybe another time. Gregory, would you do me the kindness of accompanying me on a walk?” 

Greg nodded, and the two men set off with Mycroft’s umbrella shielding them from a light drizzle of rain. 

They found themselves walking past Big Ben, across the bridge and through Lambeth, where they stopped briefly under the London eye and turned into the Jubilee Gardens. Eventually Greg asked, “Er, where exactly are we going?” 

Mycroft hadn’t thought quite that far. To be perfectly honest, he’d mostly been stalling for time. He looked to the sky—the rain had stopped. 

“I suppose there isn't any point delaying further,” said Mycroft. “Gregory, my prior phrasing left much to be desired. It is true that my actions are motivated by the Marriage Law, and I cannot pretend otherwise, but under the circumstances I think that you and I would be well-suited to each other. Your friendship and assistance over the years have been invaluable to me, and I have always appreciated and respected you. Although I am not well-versed in poetry and moonlight picnics and…whatever it is that lovers are supposed to do, I will give you what I can. I am not an easy man to be with, and I cannot promise love or even romance…but I promise the utmost respect and consideration.”

Mycroft bent and rested a trembling knee on the grass. He withdrew the ring from his pocket, still in its small velvet box.

Holding it out awkwardly, he asked, ”Gregory Lestrade, I posed a question to you yesterday without truly asking it. I hope that you can give me a different answer to-day, although of course you are not under the slightest obligation to. Would you do me the honour of entering into a partnership with me?” 

Greg reached out and hauled Mycroft up, drawing him near. Mycroft stiffened, but he did not step away. 

“I would be glad to,” he said in low tones. 

A palpable wave of relief swept over Mycroft. Greg smiled up at him. 

“Got something for you, too,” he said, and produced a velvet box of his own. Mycroft tilted his head, recognising the insignia emblazoned across it. Greg opened it to reveal the exact ring Mycroft had admired earlier, the hidden rainbow turned so that it had been given pride of place. 

“Bit flashy for your job, I know,” said Greg, “but it seemed _you,_ and you can keep the stones by your palm. See?” He slid the ring tenderly onto Mycroft’s finger, and demonstrated. There was a tiny red stone embedded on the other side. “But I wanted you to have something interesting to look at for everyday, so I had them put this in. It changes colour depending on the light.”

“Alexandrite,” Mycroft breathed. His favourite mineral.

Greg grinned at him. “For your name…Mycroft Alexander Holmes, yeah?” Mycroft had mentioned it only once— _years_ ago. He looked suddenly apologetic. “The stones on the back aren’t real, just CZ. I couldn’t afford ‘em all at once. But the people at the shop said I could come back when I can, and they’ll replace them for free. Isn’t it a happy coincidence, us finding the same place? I must have missed you by a hair.”

_The universe is rarely so lazy—but perhaps just this once._

Mycroft was at a loss for words. “Thank you,” he managed. “ _Thank you._ I am…quite happy with the cubic zirconia, no need to replace it. You needn’t have…the expense…a simple metal band would have sufficed.” 

Greg beamed at Mycroft, sunny and sincere. Mycroft felt his heart clench, and he tensed with the unfamiliarity of the sensation. “But you like it. I needn’t have, but I wanted to. Wanted to see you smile.” 

Mycroft helped Greg with his own band, fingers shaking once again. He’d meant to explain the significance behind the engraving, but it seemed cheap to explain “love” to a man who was obviously acquainted with the concept in a way Mycroft had never been—could never be. He left it, for now. 

“We have much to discuss,” Mycroft said instead. “Living arrangements…security clearance. I hear marriage is an involved affair.” 

Greg rolled his eyes. “You’re telling me.” He sobered, and said, “We’ll have time enough to deal with all that tomorrow…got a whole week. Simple things, first. Maybe…would you like to spend the night?” 

Mycroft felt alarmed. He hadn’t anticipated having to sleep with Gregory for a week yet.  He liked having his own space—he wanted to keep it while he could. Greg sensed his hesitation, and gave him a light squeeze on the shoulder. Mycroft jerked almost imperceptibly, flinching from the touch.

Greg withdrew his hand, making sure his palms were in full view. “’S okay,” he said reassuringly. “That’s fine. I just thought I’d offer.” His expression was unreadable. 

“My apologies,” said Mycroft haltingly, feeling somehow inadequate. “Perhaps…perhaps in a few days.” 

Greg nodded. “Of course.” 

“I should go,” said Mycroft, longing for the safe, clinical silence of his home. “Anthea or I will be in touch, to-morrow, and we can iron out the details. You have my cell-phone number,” he said flatly. He turned to go. 

“Wait!” Greg called after him. “Would you like me to walk you home?” 

“I can manage on my own, but the offer is much appreciated,” said Mycroft. “I hope you have a safe trip back. I can have Anthea drop you off, if you'd like.” 

“No need,” said Greg. “Would you—would you let me know you’re home safe?”

Mycroft was puzzled. “I don’t anticipate that I shall run afoul of anyone at eight o’clock on Monday.” 

“Still,” said Greg. “Text me?”

Mycroft nodded. “Good-bye, Gregory. We will speak again to-morrow.” He inclined his head, and Greg waved before turning in the direction of Waterloo Station. 

Mycroft just stood there for a while. It seemed to him that something of great significance had just transpired. It was as if something was _ending,_ making way for something else to begin. He felt deeply unsettled, and wished not for the first time that North Korea hadn’t seen fit to up-end everyone’s lives.

Retracing his steps in the direction of New Scotland Yard, Mycroft found himself in front of a well-lit bakery. He seated himself in a corner and ordered a pot of tea—and then asked the server for a muffin. Food would help, he thought, and indeed he felt the tension leave his body as he bit into the muffin’s crisp streusel top with a _crunch._ Before he knew it, he’d devoured the entire thing. Mycroft dearly wanted another but he refrained, reluctant to give Sherlock more material for his incessant jibes. He’d already gained six pounds in the lead-up to the Marriage Law…no need to add to the shameful number. 

Mycroft paid, and headed outside to wait for Anthea. 

* * *

Still feeling rather dazed, Mycroft performed his ablutions quickly and wrapped himself in a soft red bathrobe. He wanted to crawl into bed and fall asleep with a book. But first he had a promise to fulfill, lest he kept Gregory up unnecessarily. 

  _I am home._

_-M_

_oh good…was starting to worry._

_I do not share my brother’s proclivity for running into trouble._

_-M_

_haha, I’m glad. The world couldnt handle another Sherlock without going up in flames :P_

_Indeed._

_-M_

_So what are you up to?_

_Going to read for a bit, before I retire for the night._

_-M_

A pause.

_And you?_

_-M_

_Got my brother and his kids round for the night…fun, but v loud_

Mycroft imagined Gregory surrounded by squalling toddlers, and suppressed a shiver. He was far from paternal—one need only look at Sherlock for a host of reasons as to why Mycroft should not be trusted around children. 

_how many siblings do you have?_

_-M_

Two, a brother and a sister, although the sister had been estranged from the family for at least two years. Still, Mycroft didn’t want to alienate Gregory by letting him know he was an open book. 

_Two, but might as well be one. Long story. What are you reading?_

_Great Expectations. An old favourite. I fear I’m falling asleep as we speak…we will speak again to-morrow._

_-M_

_gnight then….sweet dreams._

_Good-night. I hope your dreams are pleasant._

_-M_

Mycroft placed his phone carefully on the bedside table to charge, exchanging it for a well-loved book with a cracked leather spine. He drew the pages to his nose and inhaled, allowing the familiar scent to calm him. Books had always been to Mycroft what he imagined close friends were to other people. 

He was asleep within minutes, brow creased even in unconsciousness.  

* * *

The following days passed at once quickly and slowly. There were no further surprises on the political front, although in Mycroft’s view the fallout from what _had_ transpired was bad enough. Mycroft woke to a text from Gregory Lestrade—now _Greg_ , even in his own mind—every morning, and they had taken to messaging throughout the course of the day as well. Small, pleasant exchanges: inquiries as to Greg’s wellbeing from Mycroft and an eclectic mix of trivia, personal questions and humorous updates from Greg. Mycroft did’t know that his favorite Spice Girl had any bearing on his true character, but Greg insisted that it did and so Mycroft had humoured him.

He also hadn’t realized that the people at Scotland Yard were quite so…colourful. Mycroft would sooner have incarcerated someone that admit it, but he had grown fond of Greg’s anecdotes…indifferently punctuated though they were. He liked hearing about the constantly vandalised Dog-a-Day calendar in the office, and Anderson’s never-ending conspiracy theories. He was even growing invested in the story of Sally Donovan’s everlasting stream of beaus. Anderson had started a betting pool as to how many men she’d go through before finding one she liked. Another sergeant had suggested she start dating two or three at a time to “maximise efficiency”. Scotland Yard went out for pints and football on Friday nights. Mycroft tried to picture his colleagues doing the same, and narrowly avoided spitting his tea out. England would likely go to pieces in record timing. 

Mycroft hadn’t seen Greg since the night of their engagement, but he felt closer to him all the same.

They were to be wed on Saturday…three last days to bid farewell to life as he knew it. It would be a quiet affair, with just Anthea and Sally Donovan as witnesses. Greg’s lease expired the same day, and he would move into Mycroft’s house that night. Mycroft was still thoroughly uncomfortable with the idea of sharing his life with another person, although he was infinitely grateful he to be marrying Greg rather than Lee Min-seo (she’d sent a curt missive conveying her well-wishes upon hearing news of Mycroft’s engagement. He had innovatively repurposed the card as a coaster). He understood the concept of marriages and weddings, of course, but he’d never witnessed a happy one. No matter, the union of John and Sherlock was to take place to-morrow, and he’d get an idea of what they entailed then. Although, Mycroft reflected, it was equally likely that he would get an idea of what weddings most certainly _did not_ entail, considering the pair in question.  

There was nothing for it but to wait and see. Possibly hope.

On Mycroft’s bedside table, his phone screen flashed on.

_Hey..you going to be at the wedding tomorrow?_

_Yes. Very unexpected…I suspect John wrestled my brother into inviting me._

_-M_

_haha :) Sherlock doesnt show it but i think he does care. You think he and John will make it long term?_

_Doubtful, but then I never expected Dr. Watson to last in 221B as long as he has._

_-M_

_right? Whod have thought. still, I think theyre good for each other._

_I hope so._

_-M_

_Ill let you sleep yeah? going to need energy for the big day._

_God help us all. Good-night, Greg_

_-M_

_night (: sweet dreams_

The day ahead was bound to be extremely trying, but Mycroft found himself looking forward to it regardless. For all his posturing he did enjoy being around Sherlock and his friends, at least once in a while. Mycroft had been alone all his life. He’d learned at a young age that caring only left people vulnerable to pain and hurt—that what people termed _love_ was little more than a cocktail of semiochemicals and hormones triggered in response to perceived social cues. Mycroft wore isolation and a carefully-cultivated facade of indifference like a suit of armour. No-one cared about Mycroft Holmes, and no-one ever would. Only—watching Sherlock bantering with John Watson, or trading barbs with Greg Lestrade—Mycroft sometimes liked to pretend that he belonged in their select group, that he too had people around him who would care if he was gone. He envied Sherlock his ignorance, his willingness to throw caution to the wind in favour of a few years of happiness. But that was Sherlock’s reality, and it could never be Mycroft’s.


	7. Dangerous to Dream

No sooner had Mycroft set foot into Holland Park’s handsome stone orangery than he found himself accosted by Greg’s cheerful countenance.

“Mycroft, you made it! Lovely job setting up, yeah? Sherlock and John have really outdone themselves, although I hear it was Mrs Hudson who pulled most of the strings.”

Come to think of it, it _was_ all wildly out of fashion for his brother. He’d have expected a petulant rejection of convention, with Sherlock marrying Dr. Watson (if indeed he did at all) in a hurried ceremony at the courthouse. Or to subvert tradition entirely and attempt to have his wedding in a morgue. That was _exactly_ the kind of thing Sherlock would have done—if just for the shock value, and of course to annoy Mycroft. 

But this was unexpected. The hall had been simply and tastefully decorated with lilies and hydrangeas, and the garden outside was perfectly framed by the grand windows stretching to the ceiling. So Sherlock and Dr. Watson were serious, after all—or at least wanted to give the impression that they were. 

Mycroft allowed himself to be led swiftly through the large hall and out the door. He protested half-heartedly, “But I haven’t so much as seen Sherlock, yet.” 

Greg stopped and shot Mycroft a look. “If you really want to, we can go back inside.” 

Mycroft made no motion to turn around. 

“Yeah, I thought so,” said Greg wryly. He continued striding through the verdant greenery, and Mycroft followed. “Time enough for you to see him at the very last minute. Minimizes risk of combustion.”

“I thought you _liked_ Sherlock,” Mycroft rebuked. Sibling rivalry was all very well and good, but he didn’t like the idea of people maligning his brother. Family was, after all, family. No matter how trying they could be. He wondered vaguely if his parents had been invited. 

_Likely they wouldn’t bother to come, even if they have been._

“I do like Sherlock, but I’ve seen the two of you together” Greg whistled. “He tries you rile you up, and you try right back. And it works on both of you.”

Mycroft bristled at the accusation, mostly because it was true.

Greg continued, “But it’s no matter, that’s siblings for you. When Rob and I were younger—cor! Surprised we never brought the house down, with all the fighting. Mostly we’re alright now, although we do get in the occasional tussle.”

“Your brother,” Mycroft stated. “Do you see him often?” 

Greg smiled at the thought of his family. “Yeah, Rob lives maybe five minutes away with little Ella. Been hard since his ex-wife left, so he’s over all the time for drinks or football. We’re trying to teach Ella to play, but no interest so far. More into chemistry, which I s’pose is just as well.”

Mycroft had always respected Gregory Lestrade, but in that moment he envied him. As a child, the elder Holmes brother had yearned for something approaching normalcy—sitting down with his family for dinner at the table, friendly ‘tussles’ patched easily with a hug or possibly a bribe of chocolate, parents who loved their children and had the time to show it. It had always been his greatest desire…of course Greg had the exact thing Mycroft had always coveted. It showed, too. Greg had obviously grown up happy and loved and looked-after. He _reeked_ of wholesomeness. No doubt his mother had baked, and his father had taught him to play sports, and—

Mycroft squashed the thoughts down. He’d done well enough for himself…no need to linger over might-have-beens. 

“It was my uncle,” Greg stated irrelevantly. 

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft asked, completely bewildered. Had he missed something? 

“My uncle taught me to play football. You had the exact same look Sherlock did when I mentioned my brother to him, and right afterwards he had the gall to explain my entire childhood to me. Only he got one thing wrong. ’Twas my uncle taught me football, not my da’. Wasn’t much for sports, he.”

“I see.” Mycroft was at a loss for words. 

“Don’t you love this place?” Greg continued happily, very nearly skipping. 

“It is very charming,” Mycroft agreed. 

And so it was. Mycroft had, of course, passed by Holland Park. Only it seemed new and beautiful that day, with Greg smiling and tall and strong by his side. The air was crisp and cool against his cheek, and Mycroft thought that in another lifetime he might have been holding Greg’s hand as they strolled along the stone path. 

Although the park was endlessly green, the gardens weren’t yet in full bloom. A handful of irises and primroses poked shyly out from the flower beds. Mycroft had always loved flowers in hues of deep blue and purple—irises and violets and forget-me-nots. They soothed some unspoken need that lay deep within his soul—the same need that had led him to the door of Greg Lestrade nearly a week ago. As a child, Mycroft had clung to the belief that he, like the ugly duckling in the old tales, would morph into a lithe and graceful figure. It seemed only fitting, given that he’d been so ungainly as a child. His adult appearance had therefore come as a blow to Mycroft’s passionate love of beauty, and he’d learned long ago that he was powerless to do anything but seek respite in the world around him. 

Greg broke the brief silence. “I come here on my days off…Seph loves it.”  
“Seph?” asked Mycroft, unable to keep up with this ever-growing list of relatives. 

“Persephone, my dog,” said Greg, smiling with a thoroughly enamoured expression Mycroft had heretofore believed was reserved solely for very young children. He sobered suddenly. “Course, I’ve arranged for Rob to take her after the wedding. Ella will be absolutely thrilled. It was Ella who named her and convinced me to let her stay, anyhow. She’s always been Ella’s.”

“Why give your pet away, when you are so fond of her? Surely she hasn’t raised objections to your marriage,” Mycroft asked curiously.

Greg laughed, a short and half-hearted bark. “No. It’s just that I’m coming to live with you, yeah? And you never signed up for a pet. Didn’t seem fair to just spring one on you. It isn’t so bad, as long as I get to see her.” 

Mycroft hadn’t counted on a dog, but then it seemed Greg adored Seph.

“We might yet be able to arrange something. Could I see a picture?” Mycroft asked, rather feeling like he was digging himself into a hole. 

Greg’s eyes widened with barely-concealed joy. “You’d _do that_? It would mean so much to Seph and me, even if you just tried. Here…” He scrambled for his phone, and its lock screen illuminated at his touch. 

A girl of about thirteen smiled at Mycroft from the phone, holding a three-legged dog to her chest. The child had Greg’s careless grin, Mycroft noticed with a pang. He squinted, trying to make Seph out more closely. It was slightly difficult, given that her face was little more than a tiny black nose and two imploring eyes peering out from a mass of cream-coloured curls. 

It brought a smile to Mycroft’s face, and he let it stay. 

“A rescue dog?” he asked.

“Of sorts.” Greg’s expression was slightly sheepish. “Car accident on the Holborn Viaduct…she was hurt, and protocol said to have her put down. Then she looked right at me, and I just _couldn’t._ So Ella and I had her patched up at the vet, and she’s been ours ever since.”

“You are very close with your niece,” Mycroft observed.

Greg looked at him, something inscrutable in his eyes. He kicked a pebble, and the men watched as it hit a fountain’s surface with a _splash._ “Yeah.” Greg hesitated for a long moment. “Her mom passed when she was just three…tore Rob apart. He wasn’t doing so well, so I took Ella for a year.” He brightened again. “Got _very_ acquainted with Disney princesses, and I may or may not have given her a longstanding fascination with true crime shows.” Greg’s voice was proud. “She won first place at the science fair with a homemade DNA extraction kit. She and Sherlock would get along like a house on fire—which is why I’m never introducing them to each other.” 

Mycroft nodded. “I don’t suppose I blame you.” 

A beat.

“Are we going anywhere in particular? I imagine we should start heading back to the Orangery soon, if we intend to attend the ceremony.” 

“Yeah, hang on,” said Greg, “Just a second.” He stepped off the path and weaved deftly through two large thorny bushes, and vanished. 

“Greg!” Mycroft cried, ineffectually. He stood there for a second, perplexed. Greg did not reappear. 

He rolled his eyes and followed cautiously, trying not to let his suit catch on the brambles. 

Greg stood on the other side, eyes bright. He took a single look at Mycroft and burst out in peals of laughter.

Mycroft was discomfited. “I, ah—”

Doubled over, Greg recovered long enough to point at Mycroft’s head before succumbing to another laughing fit. 

Mycroft touched a wary hand to his crown, and withdrew a handful of dry leaves.

“Very funny, Detective Inspector.” 

But Mycroft, too, was smiling. 

Greg, recovered, nodded to the scene before them. “Pretty, yeah?” 

It was absolutely gorgeous. There was a large pond before them, smattered liberally with large limestone rocks and Japanese stone sculptures. Water cascaded merrily from above, running over a tall formation covered with emerald moss. Mycroft watched quietly as it tumbled onto the rocks below and flowed out into the pond. It was towards the splashing foot of the waterfall that Greg now strode. He stepped lightly onto the first of a series of flat rocks stretching across the water-feature. 

“We’ll be back quicker if we go across here,” he called to Mycroft. 

A number of koi swam lazily to Mycroft's feet as he stepped carefully forward to join Greg on the platform in the pond’s center. He could feel the spray of water upon his face. Greg laughed—deep and dulcet tones that carried in the quiet euphony of birds and running water. He drew forth a small transparent bag from his pocket, and Mycroft could see that it held a sort of golden-brown powder. 

“You needn’t look so suspicious. Just breadcrumbs. Habit, from when Ella was younger…I’ve been bringing her here to feed the fish since she was old enough to walk.” There was mirth in Greg’s eyes as Mycroft let out a relieved breath.

Greg took Mycroft’s hand gently, shook out a few crumbs. His skin was warm and rough against Mycroft’s own, and Mycroft’s fingers curled involuntarily against Greg’s. He released them and knelt. 

Greg just stood there for a second, watching as his friend crouched before the fish, rested a hand on his knee, and bent eagerly towards the water. Mycroft held out his other hand, and it quivered as he sprinkled the crumbs slowly into the water. He hadn’t yet retracted his arm when there was a great _splash,_ and a large golden koi devoured the food in a single gulp. Mycroft stood and reared backwards, startled. 

Greg reached out an arm to steady him, letting his hand linger for a second longer than necessary on Mycroft’s elbow. He smiled inwardly at the faint blush in the other man’s cheeks. 

_You're gorgeous, did you know? And you’re not nearly as awful as you pretend to be…anyone can tell. Just shy and scared, is all. Let me in, darlin’…promise it won’t hurt._

Mycroft bent down again, oblivious to Greg’s inner monologue. Greg knelt next to him. 

“Like this,” he said softly, and scattered the crumbs over as wide a radius as he could manage. Four fish, this time—red and orange and yellow against gleaming white scales. Mycroft tried again, and the men just stood there and watched in companionable silence. Suddenly Mycroft didn’t want to go back to the Orangery, but at length he stood up and said that they ought to proceed. 

* * *

 

Mycroft felt a brief sense of loss as he stepped into the hall, and Greg wandered off to look for Sergeant Donovan. “Want to see her dressed up,” he’d explained excitedly. “Bet she looks _hilarious._ ” 

Mycroft shook it off, and proceeded on in search of Sherlock. It wasn’t usually this hard—he generally needed only to follow the trail of disgruntled faces that followed Sherlock wherever he went. Somewhat more difficult today, when the guest list had been carefully vetted to include only Sherlock and John’s nearest and dearest.

Although if Sally Donovan had made the cut, the list might not have been so exclusive after all. 

“Mycroft!” He caught Dr. Watson’s wave from the corner of his eye. Beside him stood Sherlock, who was looking thoroughly disgruntled at the prospect of having to talk to his brother. Mycroft had hoped as an adolescent that his brother would grow out of his childishness with age, but alas—no such luck. Decades on, and he still acted like a five year old who’d been put in the corner for a time-out. Sherlock could win _awards_ for sulking. 

Mycroft steeled himself, and strode towards the happy couple. 

_Just a few minutes. Congratulate them and trade a few barbs, and then you’re good to go._

“Sherlock…Dr. Watson. Congratulations. I hope you’re enjoying yourselves?” Mycroft said, with all the sincerity he could muster. And he _did_ want Sherlock to be happy. He just wished his brother would be less combative in their interactions. 

“Very much, Mycroft. So glad you could make it...means a lot to us.” 

_To us._

Sherlock noticed it too, and Mycroft practically saw his hackles raise. 

“Heard about your engagement, brother dear— _in yesterday’s paper._ ” Sherlock said icily. “You and Garrett Lestrade,”

_No._

Some imbecile at the registry must have recognised his name and seen fit to sell the story. Mycroft had intended to tell Sherlock…at some point before the wedding. He’d just been putting it off. 

“Greg,” corrected Mycroft without thinking. Sherlock’s eyes flashed fire. 

“ _Greg,_ ” he mimicked, voice high and cold. John Watson put a steadying arm on his shoulder, but Sherlock just shrugged it off angrily. 

“Sherlock…the law’s been hard for everyone. Give Mycroft a break.” 

“He’ll get plenty,” Sherlock retorted. His face twisted into a sickening facsimile of a smile. “You know why Lestrade’s marrying you, don’t you? He _gets off on you._ I’ve seen the way he looks at you—like a john hungry for his next _fuck._ ” He spat the word, and Mycroft felt his vision burn white. “What will people say? The mighty Mycroft Holmes, reduced to little more than a prostitute. Hope you’re agile enough to—”

“ _Sherlock,_ ” Watson cut him off, and something in his tone made Sherlock stop short. 

Mycroft’s chest was tight. He couldn’t breathe…he needed out. The murmur of happy voices turned into a dull buzz, and the contents of his stomach threatened to expel themselves. 

Mycroft ran. 

He ran out the hall, and through the garden, and he thought vaguely that he must look a sight in his suit and tie, but still he kept running. Mycroft ran until he couldn’t, until his legs were almost giving way and he was gasping for breath, and upon his exit from the garden he knelt by a bush and retched. He crawled behind it and sat, arms around his knees. 

But Lestrade had seemed kind…hadn’t seemed _like that._

Mycroft shivered, cold and frightened and lonely. The wind, so pleasantly cool just minutes earlier, was now a biting chill.

If Lestrade hid it so well, maybe it was just how things were. Maybe it was like that for everyone, maybe _Mycroft_ was the different one. Maybe he’d just have to grin and bear it and hope that Lestrade was gentle. 

Sherlock’s voice echoed in Mycroft’s mind, and he shuddered at how awful it all was. It had sounded so…crass, so _vulgar._

Mycroft couldn’t bear ugliness. He hated it with a passion. It was why he’d chosen to leave the field—because he couldn’t stand to see death and blood and gore. It sickened him. He knew very little of carnal desires, but Sherlock’s lewd accusations had struck the same part of his core that shrank at violence. They had been just as vile and ghastly. 

Yet there was nothing to be done, Mycroft thought helplessly. He’d have to go through with the wedding regardless. He wiped his face furiously on his shirt-sleeve, wishing he’d made his life anywhere but in London. 

His phone pinged, and he shut it off without looking to see who it had been.

_Get a hold of yourself. You can’t sit here sobbing in the bushes all day. People will find you, and then they'll talk, and who knows what Sherlock will say._

Slowly, Mycroft stood up. He brushed the leaves off his suit and started to walk home. He stopped at his favourite café on the way back, bought the most decadent pastry on display. Raspberry, and three kinds of chocolate, _and_ icing. His teeth worked defiantly as he scarfed the entire thing in three bites, barely tasting it. He took a sip of his coffee, full cream and two sugars, and it burned the roof of his tongue. By the time it was all gone, Mycroft felt a little better. He slipped his fingers under his coat, undid a straining button. Then, hands unsteady, he reached for a cigarette and lit it as he sank onto a bench. Mycroft stayed there for a few minutes, or maybe hours. Tried to put Sherlock out of his mind, as he sat there staring at nothing in particular.

Why did Sherlock ruin everything? _Why?_ He could have had the kindness to let Mycroft remain blissfully ignorant until he’d found out for himself. Gregory Lestrade—with the kind black eyes, with fish food in his suit pocket and a darling niece and a dog—a lecher. And Mycroft was his prey. 

Hot tears welled in Mycroft’s eyes. He blinked, and they rolled onto his cheek and off his chin. Mycroft bowed his head, ashamed. 

Greg _had_ been too good to be true.


	8. Monster

By the time Mycroft finally arrived at his Pall Mall residence, the wedding ceremony had long passed and the moon hung brilliantly in the sky. He sat on the doorstep, knees drawn, looking over his little garden and up into the stars. As a young boy, he'd often sat in the exact same position outside Musgrave Hall. The stars were beautiful from the countryside. In a way, he reflected, very little in his life had changed. It was the exact same story, the same players with old scores to settle, but with stakes that had heightened exponentially as the brothers grew older. Time had wrought what had started out as childish jibes into vicious strikes. Someday serious damage would be done, and they’d _never come back from it._

Mycroft had the feeling Sherlock knew this as well as he did. They were both trapped in a holding pattern, powerless. Each driving the other to disaster, but it was too late now to change the trajectory of their flight paths.

Mycroft reached to the ground, ripped up a blade of grass. He shredded it in his hands and threw it back into the dirt. In his chest, his heart started to beat wildly, and he bade it steady. He retreated into his house, brought out a packet of biscuits and chewed methodically through it. It comforted and relaxed him, and he didn’t stop until the biscuits were all gone. No doubt Gregory expected his betrothed trim and fit and ready for physical… _exertions,_ but the day had been a long one. Mycroft had been large as a boy, and although his adult frame now disguised the excess weight, he remained shamefully soft. The combined forces of genetics and a fondness for sweet things, he supposed. Mycroft rested a rueful hand on his middle, mounded against his shirt. Perhaps another diet would be wise, when everything had blown over.

Sherlock had been a beautiful child, with his striking blue eyes and chestnut curls. Slender, always. People had looked straight past the homely young Mycroft, flocking instead to Sherlock. It had stung, deeply. So Mycroft had taken pride in the one advantage he did hold—his superior intellect. Until Sherlock started to show signs of heightened reasoning ability, and then Mycroft had panicked. Would his younger brother overshadow him there, too? 

And the frightened, lonely child had done the only thing that had made sense at the time. He’d bullied Sherlock, hoping that if Sherlock _believed_ himself inferior to Mycroft in all respects it would balance out the inequality between them. The plan had backfired miserably, of course. Sherlock was willful and rebellious, and he’d started to fight back as soon as he learned how. As an adult Mycroft had felt deeply regretful. He’d tried on multiple occasions to make peace with his brother, but it seemed there were some things that could never be forgiven. 

Mycroft, leaning back against the door, decided it wasn’t any use to dwell on it, and instead turned his attention to his phone. 

Five missed calls, one from Dr. Watson and five from Gregory Lestrade. 

An entire stream of text messages, mostly from Lestrade. A couple from Dr. Watson. 

_Met a bloke who says he’s maybe your new driver? John’s friend Mike, apparently. Nice fellow, why didn’t you introduce us?_

Michael Stamford? Mycroft had met the man, but only briefly. He supposed Watson had intended to propose the arrangement before the Sherlock debacle. Mycroft liked Dr. Stamford well enough—he’d put Anthea in touch with him later. At least one good thing had come of this godforsaken day. 

_Sally looks like a cupcake!! :P_

The text was accompanied by a picture, with Sergeant Donovan in a puffy yellow dress standing next to the tiered wedding cake. Mycroft had to admit that the silhouettes were distressingly similar. 

_Driver’s chatting Sally up…I think she likes him! want to bet on how long it takes for the wedding to go pear-shaped? my money says another ten minutes. I'm right outside getting air, come find me if you like :)_

Fifteen minutes later—

_You okay? Where are you?_

From Dr. Watson: 

_hey mycroft, sherlock. was out of..; line. he didnt mean it. r. u. OK?_

Gregory, again. 

_John said you got in a tiff with Sherlock. you okay? want to get ice cream when this is done? sherlock’s a bit of an idiot sometimes, isnt he._

_mycroft?_

_Mycroft, im getting worried. please call me._

Lestrade was the last person Mycroft wanted to talk to right then. They would get married to-morrow, a quick ceremony at the courthouse, and it would be _just fine._ Mycroft would do whatever was expected of him that evening, and hope it was over quickly, and it would be _fine._ They’d live their lives together and Lestrade would _fuck_ him, like Sherlock said, and it would all be _fine._ What did it matter if Lestrade cared for him or not? It was a marriage of convenience, after all. Hadn’t he said as much to Lestrade that day at Scotland Yard? It would be _fucking fine._

Mycroft’s tears fell before he even realised that they’d gathered, and he wiped them angrily away for the third time that day. He headed inside and straight for the kitchen, where he reached for bread and grapes and chocolate— _anything_ —until the ache in his stomach eclipsed the one in his chest. It was past midnight when he finally fell asleep, exhausted, a familiar old film still playing on the screen before him and his russet eyelashes crusted over with salt.


	9. Something Blue

Mycroft woke the next morning feeling sick. There were more texts from Gregory, and he didn’t bother reading them before shooting off a reply.

_Apologies. I am fine. We are meeting at the Westminster Register Office at 1?_

_-M_

He got up, still feeling spent, and headed for the shower. It took a good hour of scrubbing and four rinses before he felt halfway like himself again. Stepping out of the shower, Mycroft grimaced at himself in the mirror. He looked an absolute mess, and he didn’t feel much better. The circles under his eyes were so dark they were very nearly purple, and his eyes themselves were shot through with faint scarlet lines.  There was a greenish pallor to Mycroft’s face, under the lingering redness from the scalding water he’d run over his skin.

* * *

 

Greg paced the floor of his empty apartment, a knot of tension in his stomach. As far as happy beginnings went, this didn’t appear to be one. Mycroft had sent just one curt text after disappearing at the wedding yesterday. John said nothing, except that there had been an argument. It must have been an awful one, given that Mycroft’s abrupt departure. Greg had reached out, but it seemed Mycroft had pulled away. After all the progress they’d made, it stung more than Greg liked to admit. 

And it _was_ the damned Marriage Law, and maybe he was expecting too much, but he’d thought—he’d thought maybe he and Mycroft would have spent the morning together. Have breakfast by the river, go for a walk...savour their last moments together as maybe-more-than-friends before they became husbands.

He’d thought that he and Mycroft had been getting along well recently. Surely he hadn’t only imagined it all? Mycroft had seemed to open up a little more every day this past week, and Greg had treasured each small step he’d made. 

Because under all that armour, Mycroft was a good man who wanted to be loved, but didn’t know how to admit it to himself. Greg didn’t interact with the man as often as he saw Sherlock, but he saw it clear as day. It was in the way Mycroft looked after Sherlock from afar, and extended the same concern to anyone who mattered to his brother. It was in the way he coloured with shy happiness in the face of unexpected kindnesses. It was in every _gorgeous_ line of his body as he’d knelt by the pond yesterday, practically glowing as he reached out eagerly to the fish before him. Mycroft had seemed nearly transfixed by the stories Greg had told of his family as they made their way back to the Orangery, and so Greg had relayed anecdotes from the time of Rob’s first marriage—painful though they were—just to hear Mycroft laugh. And he was  glad he had. It felt good to remember when they’d all been a happy, whole family. Before Laurie had passed, and Rob had fallen off the edge of the map and married Awful Nina, as they now called her, and Greg had somehow stumbled into his own unhappy marriage. 

It had seemed to make sense at the time. He’d got along reasonably with Lisa, and it had seemed like the Thing To Do. Find a nice person to share his life with, yeah? There hadn’t been fireworks, or even sparks, but Greg had thought quiet contentment a worthwhile substitute. 

Lisa had decided after a bit that it wasn’t. Greg still didn’t know where it had all gone awry. Should he have tried harder to keep the flame going—planned romantic getaways, bought flowers, taken time off work? Maybe if Lisa had only fucking _talked to him about it—_ if she’d been unhappy, was it his fault for not noticing or hers for looking elsewhere for comfort?

He didn’t know, and he no longer cared. It had been lonely, just him and Rob and Ella, but preferable to having people masquerading as family when they’d never belonged in the first place. 

Did Mycroft belong? Not quite, but Greg imagined that he might with time. He checked his watch. Time enough for a quick rinse, and then off to sign his life away when he wasn’t yet ready—again. 

He hoped only that this time wouldn’t be as catastrophic.

* * *

Mycroft had been there, waiting, as Greg stepped out of the cab. He was fidgeting with the hem of his coat, face pale and drawn, and Greg noted the red eyes with worry. Whatever it was, it was _bad._ He’d never seen Mycroft look quite so...dead. 

“Mycroft?” He said, as gently as he could.

Mycroft startled, and Greg caught a flash of terror in his eyes. Was the marriage truly such an awful prospect? He wasn’t a catch, by any means, but he was a decent man. He hadn’t imagined himself someone who inspired this level of horror. Goodness knew Sally would give less backtalk if he did. 

“Mycroft...we don’t have to do this. Screw it all, we’ll get you a medical exemption or something.” Greg winked, trying to project calm when he felt anything but. Mycroft needed a steady hand. “I’ve got connections.”

Not so much as a half-smile. 

“No,” Mycroft said tiredly. “It’s okay. I apologise if I’ve offended you.” His voice was toneless, and Greg winced inwardly.

“I’m not offended, Mycroft. Just worried. You’re not yourself.” Greg reached a friendly hand towards Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft flinched and reared back as if he’d been stung. Regaining his composure, he narrowed his eyes.

“ _And how would you know, pray tell?_ ” It was said with venom, and Greg took a step back. He was reminded uncomfortably of the sneering man who’d come to his office to ask brusquely for his hand in marriage. His temper started to flare. How _dare_ Mycroft, when it had been his idea. When he’d promised it would be more than convenience. 

Greg took a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before letting it out slowly. 

This was Mycroft’s prickly outer layer, and Greg knew it wasn’t who he was on the inside. He wouldn’t be standing here otherwise, wouldn’t have even given it a chance. And better a good person hiding behind a façade of cold than the opposite. It wouldn’t do for them both to have their weapons out...Greg knew from bitter experience that relationships only ever survived temper tantrums if they were thrown in turns. 

He kept all this at the forefront of his mind even as the white-faced stranger before him stared stonily into the distance, and tried again. When he finally spoke, his tone was gentle but firm. 

“I care about you, and I want to maybe look back on today years into the future and remember that it was a happy one. A new beginning for us both. It’s not what either of us asked for, but it’s what we got, so let’s _make it a good one._ ” He spoke fiercely, and something seemed to flicker across Mycroft’s face. 

“I apologise,” said Mycroft again. “My words were harsh, and I hadn’t intended to wound you.” He did not, however, retract the implication, and Greg’s heart sank a little. The corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitched up, and he nodded towards the courthouse. 

“Shall we?” He hesitated before extending his arm. Greg took it, and they walked through the doors together. 

Anthea, having driven Mycroft over, was waiting indoors with Sally. As Greg stepped inside, he thought he heard Anthea say, looking more at ease than he’d ever seen her, “He doesn’t _really_. Really? For Mr. Holmes?”

Greg tried to look sternly at Sally, but failed. Sally just grinned and called, “Sorry, boss! We saw this wedding coming before you did.” 

Greg laughed back at her, only to feel muscles clenched against his arm. What little colour Mycroft had regained after Greg’s little speech had drained from his face. 

“Pardon me,” Mycroft said, and stepped carefully away.

Greg wanted to hold him close, look into his frightened grey eyes and ask what was wrong. Something was obviously the matter. He’d have to have a word with John. And many words, with Sherlock. 

Sally looked blissfully oblivious, but Anthea was frowning now, too. 

“You okay?” Greg whispered to Mycroft, who nodded tightly. “Just a bit more, and then you’ll be back home. Hang in there.” 

Mycroft seemed to turn paler still, if that was possible. 

* * *

Greg hadn’t the faintest idea how they’d managed to get through the ceremony, which had been rather short and anticlimactic. Bloody _miracle_ , it was, with Mycroft on the verge of collapse and Greg himself feeling drained before their new lives had even started. And now they were officially married. He couldn’t help feeling like they ought to…take a picture together, or open a bottle of champagne. Celebrations were warranted, no? So far his wedding had felt more like a funeral. 

Greg now sat in the passenger seat of a grey Audi, Anthea at the wheel.  

“Will you require assistance with moving in?” Mycroft had asked earlier, before Anthea had dropped him off in front of a house that Greg had identified as Mycroft’s before the car had even slowed. It seemed right, somehow…not large, but elegant and neatly kept. The little garden out front had been the giveaway—a scattering of tasteful ornaments and flowers. “I can send someone up to collect your things. If you’ll excuse me, there are a few matters I need to tend to. I’ll see you here when you’re done? There are still arrangements to be made before the house is suitable for a dog, but it’ll be ready next week if your brother will mind her for a bit.” It was longest collection of words Mycroft had strung together that day.

Greg had thanked him for the kindness and told him not to worry, that if Anthea would drive him to his flat and back after he picked up a few boxes he could manage on his own. Maybe “a few” had been an exaggeration. There were exactly two medium-sized boxes sitting in the backseat. Just clothes, a photo album, a couple odds and ends. He’d let Lisa keep most of their things when they’d split—Greg no longer wanted them.The few pieces of furniture he had, he’d thrown out. Somehow Greg couldn’t imagine his tattered old couch in Mycroft Holmes’s house.

“So,” Greg said to Anthea, who’d been mostly quiet so far. He didn’t know if that was a personal assistant thing, or because Mycroft was the silent sort. “Marriage Law’s got you scrambling, too?” That ring hadn’t been on her finger last he’d seen her, maybe a few weeks ago. He didn’t know how old Anthea was, and he wondered belatedly if the question had been impolite. 

“No, sir. I was fortunate.” She seemed unfazed, but maybe that was a personal assistant thing, too. Mycroft must have a hell of a job to need one. Greg didn’t know what to do with just Seph around most days. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have another person always on call, although it seemed he was about to find out. 

“Been _ages_ since anyone’s called me ‘sir’ and sounded like they meant it,” Greg laughed. “It’s refreshing, but I have to admit I prefer Greg.”

Anthea gave the barest hint of a smile. “Greg. No, I missed the cut-off by a month— _thank goodness_ I was born in January.” 

“I see. My sincerest congratulations, then.” He nodded towards her ring. 

“Oh, no,” Anthea said. “That’s just there for the week…fends people off. You wouldn’t _believe_ the number of proposals I got the day they announced the Law. Easier this way.” 

“Clever,” Greg mused. “If only North Korea was so easily fooled.” He laughed bitterly, and the sound caught in his throat.

Anthea looked at him out of the corners of her eyes. “It’s not true, then. You haven’t really been hoping to court Mr. Holmes.”

Greg felt heat rising to his cheeks. 

 _Sally and her infernal predictions. Why were they always_ right?

He supposed he deserved it, having partaken in Anderson’s betting pool. With Sally’s blessing, he’d put a good-natured pound on the next boyfriend being the one to win her heart. 

“I like Mycroft,” Greg replied slowly, “But I’d been hoping for a little more time. Not to mention a forced marriage really takes the fun out of romance.”

“Touche.” 

She pulled sharply into Mycroft’s street. “Look after him, won’t you? He’s a good man, even if it doesn’t always show. I wasn’t exactly qualified for this job when I took it, but he said he’d have me and pay for the training when he saw I needed it. Been with him ten years now.” 

Somehow it didn’t surprise Greg. “Of course,” he said, and thanked her for the ride. “I promise I’ll give Mycroft my best.” He meant it with all of his heart.


	10. If I Loved You

Mycroft answered the doorbell almost immediately, and within seconds he was outside with an armful of cardboard box. He’d insisted on helping. Greg had given him the lighter one, seeing as he looked about ready to fall over with exhaustion.  

“Is it okay if we leave them in your living room for now?” Greg asked as they stepped inside. Mycroft just nodded. Greg looked around curiously, doing his best not to stare. He didn’t know exactly what he’d expected, but he felt surprised nonetheless. 

Mycroft’s home was _cozy_. The first thing he registered was a large fish tank, situated in front of the large leather sofa in the space where where most people put their televisions. 

On the sofa was a stack of plush cushions in the colours of the rainbow. A large bookcase with at least twenty neatly-filled shelves stood next to it. Greg wondered if Mycroft was tall enough that he could reach the top, or if he had to use a step-stool or even climb on the sofa. Something about that mental image sent an inexplicable rush of fondness through Greg’s chest. 

He supposed he’d imagined something more like a showroom and less like a home. Marble, maybe, and a huge echoing house. The sort of place that belonged to a lonely bachelor with more money than he knew what to do with. But it was clear that someone lived in and loved this house, from the sheet music still open on the upright piano to the forget-me-nots hanging brightly next to the window. 

Greg turned to Mycroft, who was studiously examining his nails as if they contained the secrets of the universe. 

Feeling Greg’s gaze on him, Mycroft looked up at him and then away again. “It isn’t much,” he said stiffly, “But it’s my home. I hope you’ll find it to your satisfaction. Anything it lacks can be ordered, if you’d be kind enough to talk to Anthea about what you need.”

“Mycroft, it’s _brilliant!_ ” Greg proclaimed, eyes wide. “ _You have fish…!_ ”

Mycroft just stared at him blankly.

Greg took pity on him. “Why don’t you go take a shower or do something to relax,’ Greg said kindly, “And I’ll come find you in a half hour in your room? We can sort out living arrangements then.” 

Greg heard a clack as Mycroft’s teeth slammed together, and then Mycroft turned and darted up the stairs. He debated following, but decided that perhaps everything would be best sorted when Mycroft was feeling a little better. In the meantime, he settled back on the sofa to wait. The ring on his finger glinted in the sun, and he held it up to look at the engraving. 

It had obviously been chosen with a great deal of care. The girl in the shop—Ivy?—had pointed it out to Greg before he’d seen the other. Love, loyalty and friendship, she’d said. Greg didn’t doubt that Mycroft knew the symbolism behind it. Mycroft knew everything, it seemed sometimes. And it was no wonder, when the man apparently had a lifetime’s worth of books in his living room alone. 

That rainy day in Lambeth seemed an age ago. The friendly rapport that had blossomed between him and Mycroft, the little seed of hope that had been planted the first time they texted good-night—just a dream, now, that slid from his grasp the more he reached for it. 

Yet it seemed that it might have been Mycroft’s dream, too. How had that changed in a matter of hours? 

As if on cue, his phone started to ring. 

“John?” 

“Greg! Have you spoken to Mycroft?” 

Greg rolled his eyes. _Yeah, no. We got married today without so much as talking._ “Yes, and it’s _bad._ What the hell did Sherlock say?” 

There was a long pause, and Greg fought the urge to march right into 221B Baker Street then and there, and throttle the both of them. 

“I…can’t say. I think you’d best hear it from Sherlock. Listen, I’m not sure you talking to Mycroft about it is the best thing right now. I can be over at six if you like, I might be able to sort it out with him.” 

“I’m his _husband,_ ” Greg ground out. 

“Why is exactly why he isn’t going to tell you anything,” John pointed out. Greg hated to admit it, but he might be right. Still, he itched to be there for Mycroft. 

“Why don’t I see you and Sherlock tomorrow,” Greg said. “I’ll be ‘round at 1.”

John took a second to reply. “Maybe it’s best we do it before tonight…”

Greg’s temper rose. “ No, because it’s my bloody _wedding day_ , and because of his absolute idiot of a brother my husband is terrified of me, and tonight I’m going to bloody well make sure that he knows I care about him no matter what.” 

The line clicked over John’s sharp intake of breath. 

Greg was halfway up the stairs before John called again, his phone still lying on the sofa. 

“Mycroft?” He knocked on the closed door next to the landing. 

“Come in,” said Mycroft in muffled tones. 

Greg opened the door and nearly closed it again in shock. Mycroft was sitting up in bed, a forest-green blanket clutched to his chest. His shoulders were shaking and bare, and if Greg wasn’t mistaken the thin sheet was the only thing covering his long legs. Greg was by now _very_ curious, but he forced himself to look out the large window instead. Something wasn’t right, here. 

“I took a shower.” Mycroft’s voice cracked. 

“That’s good, then. Do you feel better?” 

Mycroft nodded mutely. 

Perhaps this was how Mycroft dealt with stress? He looked so small and scared, sitting there shivering beneath the blankets. Greg wanted to hug him, but that would be rather more logistically complicated than either of them was ready for right now. 

“Um, Mycroft? What’s…this?” Greg indicated the bed with a sweep of his arm.

Mycroft ducked his head and drew the blanket up still further. “I am—very inexperienced,” he managed. “Will you be gentle?”

“ _What the devil are you talking about?”_

“The—consummation.”

“ _Consummation? We haven’t even kissed!_ ” Greg’s voice rose to a near shriek. Last he checked, this wasn’t the Middle Ages.

Mycroft’s voice was small. “Oh,” he said. “But I thought you’d want—”

Did Mycroft think so little of him? What had he done, to imply anything like _that_?

“No! Of course not!”

At this Mycroft twitched a little, haughty now that the terror had receded somewhat. “I wasn’t aware you found my appearance so distasteful.”

“ _God_ no, you’re bloody gorgeous. But I only want to when you’re ready, and not a second before. And you might never be, and _that’s fucking fine._ I’m not about to force you into anything when you’re obviously terrified. That would be _awful._ ”

“But Sherlock said—” It was drowned out by a sob, and Mycroft buried his head in the blanket. 

Greg flew to the side of the bed, and sat down carefully. 

Mycroft looked up at him with bloodshot eyes, body wracked with convulsions. Greg opened his arms, and he let Mycroft collapse into them. 

“Listen to me,” Greg whispered urgently. “Remember when you said you’d always respect me? Remember? The same goes for me. I’m never going to take anything from you that you don’t give freely. I care about you, Mycroft. I want you to be safe and happy.”

Mycroft didn’t reply, still weeping bitterly into his chest. Greg stroked the soft red hair like he often did Ella’s after a bad dream or a long day at school. 

“Shh, sweetheart. Been a long week, yeah? I’m here, it’s okay. Nothing’s coming for you. You’re safe with me.”

_Bloody hell. No wonder he’s been off. Sherlock...I swear, when I get my hands on you—_

The man had gone way too far. If there wasn’t an extremely good explanation for all this...so help him God, he was going to bury Sherlock alive. He’d been nothing but friendly towards him. Sometimes openly infuriated, yes, but Greg had never held the same doubts about Sherlock that most of Scotland Yard did. 

And to frighten his own brother like that, on purpose...

Mycroft _loved_ Sherlock. It was plain in everything he did, despite the barbs he threw when provoked. And for all that Sherlock was ornery and obstinate around Mycroft, Greg sincerely believed that he did care for his elder brother. Likely he’d not meant to terrorise Mycroft, but the fact remained that he had. That wasn’t okay. It wasn’t fair to Mycroft, or to Greg.

At length Mycroft’s sobs turned into gasps and then to hiccups, and he relaxed his hold around Greg’s neck.

“Want me to leave so you can get dressed?” Greg offered. 

“No,” Mycroft whispered. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

“Okay,” said Greg. “As long as you need.” Only as Mycroft had calmed down, it had become harder and harder to ignore the soft planes of Mycroft’s shoulders and the creamy, exquisite curve of his neck laid out invitingly across his lap. Greg willed his body desperately to behave.

_Last thing he needs right now._

Greg tried to distract himself by looking around the room instead. It was small, and polished bookcases took up a great deal of the little floor space there was. Minimalist—the bookcases, bed, chest of drawers, desk. But the room was well-lit and breezy, with plants in a pop-up cage by the window. 

It wasn’t long before Greg caught the quickening tempo of Mycroft’s heartbeat. Ten seconds after that, and the slight hitch of Mycroft’s breath signalled that he too had noticed it.

He shifted restlessly under the covers, and eventually asked if Greg would turn away while he dressed. 

Greg’s arms felt empty without Mycroft in them, but it was only moments later that he felt a soft tap on the shoulder. 

Mycroft had changed into a brown linen shirt and, to Greg’s amusement, matching bottoms. Greg generally considered himself to be doing well if he managed to get a shirt on before noon...he hadn’t owned pajamas since he was a child.

“Tired?” Greg asked Mycroft, who looked to be falling asleep on his feet. “Would you like to take a nap?” It was four in the afternoon, but something told Greg that Mycroft hadn’t slept very much last night, if at all.

Mycroft nodded. “Will you stay?”

“Course,” Greg said, and followed Mycroft over to the bed. Mycroft was asleep and snoring gently within minutes. Greg watched him fondly for a few moments, and then settled back against the headboard. Despite his best intentions, he too succumbed to unconsciousness.

* * *

When Mycroft stirred an hour later, he let Greg’s arm remain on his shoulder. The events of the past week hit his consciousness like a brick, and he would have groaned if Greg hadn’t been sleeping so peacefully, sprawled across Mycroft’s pillows like he belonged there. And really he did, now. Mycroft only owned the one bed, and he wasn’t about to relegate Greg to the sofa. If he was amenable, Mycroft intended for them to share the room. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t have to for it to be right. Not to mention there had been whispers on the horizon of marital checks from North Korea...another host of civil rights violations, more demands they weren’t able to reject without incurring certain disaster.

Although perhaps the disaster had already occurred. He’d made a perfect _fool_ of himself in front of Greg. The man must think him an idiot. Mycroft couldn’t recall what he’d been thinking. It all seemed far away, after the events of the afternoon. He’d been so desperately afraid of losing his dignity that it had slipped from his brittle grasp anyway. Mycroft didn’t even know what he was afraid of any longer, although certainly it was something. He tried to collect his thoughts, lay them out neatly in his mind so he could make sense of it all.

Fact: He was married to Greg Lestrade. They now shared a house.

This was, surprisingly, the least pressing matter. Possibly it helped that it had been Mycroft’s idea, and he’d had a week to get used to it. Although Mycroft had lived alone for the better part of his life now, he’d had roommates in school and during the early years of his career. He knew how to get along with people. Sharing his bed had been the most daunting prospect, and it seemed they’d overcome that hurdle. Although of course Greg would have to be coaxed into staying on his own side of the bed. Marriage was certainly new to Mycroft, but so far it had been manageable. Like living with a good friend, he imagined, not that he’d had one of those for a long time. Of everyone he knew, Greg fitted that description the most closely. He only hoped he hadn’t lost his respect.

Fact: Mycroft had let Sherlock’s taunts upset him, and he’d believed Greg would hurt him.

Sherlock’s jibes usually stung, but Mycroft couldn’t remember them ever being as effective as this. Why?

He supposed that, whether or not it had been a calculated attempt at tearing Mycroft apart, Sherlock’s horrific predictions had worked by targeting a combination of the unknown and his greatest weaknesses. (It had been calculated, then, and it was an ugly thought.)

Mycroft had been tricked because he’d underestimated the extent of Sherlock’s cruelty. Greg was a good person, and it showed when Mycroft wasn’t blinded by fear and ignorance. It had been easy for Mycroft to believe Sherlock because he knew nothing of physical intimacy—knew not the cues surrounding it, whether marriage gave one a free pass, and least of all how it worked. Now that he understood Greg wasn’t about to blindside him with some expectation Mycroft had missed in adolescence—while his peers learned each other’s bodies and he learned his lessons—it was much easier not to be frightened, to let Greg’s actions speak instead. Not once had Greg given Mycroft reason to be afraid...not once had Greg not afforded him every consideration there was. Greg, Mycroft felt, would not hurt him intentionally.

Fact: Mycroft had been cold towards Greg, and then he’d ruined his carefully cultivated persona by falling into the man’s arms and crying like an anaemic heroine in an awful romance novel. 

This was rather difficult to grapple with at the moment, seeing as tear-stains were still evident on Greg’s shirt. Oh, dear. An apology was in order. Mycroft couldn’t say he’d ever been in a situation like this. Flowers and chocolate, he’d heard, were customary. A card from Hallmark? Perhaps he’d ask John. Greg had been kind and caring throughout the entire ordeal. Mycroft had felt safe in his arms, strong and warm, against his muscled chest. Mycroft liked Greg, and he hoped Greg still liked him. 

Fact: Greg was starting to stir, blinking sleepily up at Mycroft.

“Mmph...Myc...”

Was Greg always quite so—adorable? 

“Morning,” Greg said sunnily, now starting to sit up. “You hogged the blankets.”

Mycroft’s gaze swept pointedly across the seven eighths of the bed Greg had commandeered. 

Greg just grinned. “Sorry.” He didn’t sound very apologetic, but Mycroft let it slide. “Hey, I’m starving. Have you got food in the house?”

As it happened, Mycroft did not. He flushed with shame as he recalled how he’d emptied the pantry the night before. It had been all he could do to clean up and take the rubbish outside before Greg saw. What would he think? Greg probably lived on green things. He probably loved them.

“No, apologies,” said Mycroft. “I haven’t yet been grocery shopping this week,” he lied. 

“No matter,” said Greg cheerfully. “Want to go out for ice cream, and then we’ll pick up some things on the way back? My treat. We missed lunch, so probably it’s okay about getting dessert first.”

He looked so hopeful that Mycroft found himself nodding even as he panicked inwardly. He hated eating in front of other people—there was something incredibly unsettling about the idea of being watched in so vulnerable an act.

Too late to go back now, with Greg beaming up at him like he’d hung the moon. Mycroft didn’t deserve the brilliant smile, but he treasured it nonetheless.

“Let me change, and I’ll join you downstairs in a moment. Feel free to make yourself tea or explore—I neglected to show you around, but I will in the evening if you’d like.” Mycroft said, hesitating only slightly before offering Greg the run of the house. But it was, after all, theirs to share now. 

“Mycroft,” said Greg slowly. “What have you got in the window?” Greg was staring in its direction, looking completely flummoxed. Mycroft knew what it was without even looking, but he turned anyway.

There was a flutter of azure and silver from inside one of the plant cages. Mycroft walked over and picked it up, motioning to Greg to come over.

“A butterfly,” breathed Greg. 

“ _Polyommatus icarus,_ or the common blue. From the family Lycaenidae. The gossamer-wings, known for their structural colouration rather than true pigmentation. 

Opening the cage carefully, Mycroft held out a finger. The butterfly crawled onto it obligingly, wings folded up to reveal a bluish underside spotted with black. 

Mycroft pointed it out. “A male,” he said. “The females are more brown. There are more caterpillars camouflaged amongst the leaves, can you see?”

He watched as Greg’s eyes widened with awe. It brought a smile to Mycroft’s face. “These caterpillars are especially interesting, because they produce a sort of sugary secretion called honeydew in the wild. For some reason these don’t in captivity, but I’ll point it out to you if we come across them outside. Ants feed on the honeydew, and in return they protect the caterpillars against predators. It’s a sort of symbiosis called myrmecophily—ant-loving. The ants tend the caterpillars.”

“Why have you got caterpillars in your room?” Greg was transfixed by the butterfly.

Mycroft laughed a little, shy. “These were abundant when I was a child, and I loved to watch the caterpillars with the ants. Now there’s been a significant decline in their host plants—about ninety-six percent, if I recall correctly. The populations are crashing, and I don’t see them outside often. It saddened me, so I bought some seeds and made them a habitat in my garden. In the winter months it’s too cold for them to survive outdoors, so I take them inside and give the eclosed butterflies to a conservatory. Some of the eggs go into diapause if they’re left in the cold too long—that’ll be this batch. It's warm enough now for them to be outside, I think.”

He held out his finger to Greg. “If you’d be so kind as to release him while I get dressed.”

Greg let the butterfly crawl onto his finger, a look of amazement brightening his features. 

“His name is Mycroft,” he announced. 

And with a smile like that, how could Mycroft argue? 

* * *

Mycroft found Greg in the garden, Mycroft II still on his finger. He raised an eyebrow.

“Think he likes me,” Greg said in wonder. 

_Given the opportunity, I would choose also to linger._

“Hey, fella.” said Greg. “Time to get off. Promised your namesake I’d take him for ice cream...important engagement, you know.” He shook his finger lightly, and Mycroft II flew gracefully off in a whirl of blue and silver before returning to alight on Mycroft’s shoulder. 

“Hello,” Mycroft said, surprised. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go, too.”

As if in understanding, Mycroft II wiggled his antennae happily before taking wing once more. Greg and Mycroft stood there for a second, watching the butterfly disappear into the sky.


	11. Something There

Greg tripped merrily alongside Mycroft, eyes wide as he looked around. He’d counted at least eight bodyguards and eleven three-piece suits so far, and they’d not been out five minutes. Mycroft was _posh._ Greg had always known it, of course, from the polished accent and sleek limousines, but it had never been more to him than a passing observation. Here amongst the rooftop gardens and stone-faced businesspeople, it finally sank in. 

He wondered if the ice-cream here was posh, too. 

Greg glanced at Mycroft’s tall, imposing frame in admiration. Mycroft walked as if he owned the neighbourhood, his long strides forcing Greg to skip every so often to keep up. Every so often he’d stop to point out a landmark and explain the history behind it, or to offer the species name of a bird or plant. Greg hadn’t realised birch came in different sorts. 

There was no trace of the drained man who’d wept in his arms earlier, but neither did he resemble the cold, brilliant machine he so often projected. Mycroft Holmes exuded power and confidence with every precise click of his heels on the pavement, and Greg felt oddly safe walking next to him.

And now they were married, out for ice cream and groceries. 

It was an absolutely delightful thought. 

So far, Greg quite liked being married to Mycroft. It was freeing, in a way, having attained the pinnacle of commitment without having worked their way up. This marriage wasn’t a lofty ideal—wasn’t the end-point where all things culminated and too often shattered. It was a beginning, with nowhere to go but up. Greg hoped that it would. 

* * *

Tightening his grip on the carved umbrella handle, Mycroft fought the urge to reach out and grasp Greg’s hand. They weren’t thirteen, for goodness’ sake. Yet part of him felt like a boy again, heart skipping a beat every time Greg so much as looked at him. He hoped Greg wasn’t bored. Mycroft was doing his best to entertain him with facts about the area, but so far the other man was mostly quiet, although he seemed happy. 

Mycroft felt large and ungainly next to Greg’s lithe figure, and he drew himself up as far as he could. He was at least taller, which worked somewhat to his advantage. As he caught the jealous, narrowed eyes of the Australian ambassador stepping out of the bank, he realised that within days people would be speculating that he’d bought Greg Lestrade’s affections. It was a painful thought, but easy to suppress in the glow of pride that he felt by Greg’s side. As if Greg _could_ be bribed. 

A wondrously kind, beautiful man, and somehow he was now Mycroft’s husband. He didn't know exactly what husbands did, but if it meant a lifetime of quietly happy evenings watching the sun set with a strong, protective presence at his shoulder —he would treasure the marriage always. 

“There are a number of dessert places on this street—you’re welcome to choose one,” Mycroft said, gesturing with his umbrella. 

He watched as Greg scanned them all, and lit up as he caught sight of the gelateria on the corner. 

“Do you like gelato?” 

Mycroft nodded, trying not to look too eager. 

There was a tug on his arm, and Mycroft let himself be led into the store. 

Greg hovered happily by the display case. 

“I can’t choose—who knew _lavender_ was a flavour? What’s lychee, and what does it taste like?” 

It was difficult for Mycroft to suppress his smile. He squeezed Greg’s hand lightly, and his heart leapt as he felt the answering pressure. 

“The lavender, if I recall, is quite good. Lychee is a Chinese fruit with a rough skin. Its flesh is sweet and floral, much like a rambutan if you’ve ever had one. In traditional Chinese medicine it’s said to cause heatiness, which is helpful if you’re feeling cold or fatigued.” 

Greg tilted his head, considering. 

“I’ll have that one. It’s a little chilly out.” He tiptoed, mouth against Mycroft’s ear, and asked quietly, “Do they have rainbow sprinkles? Might I help you order, as well?”

“Yes, and yes,” Mycroft whispered back, as the girl behind the counter watched in amusement. “If you’d be kind enough to ask for a small scoop of the cantaloupe. In a cup, please.” 

“Rainbow sprinkles?” Greg asked hopefully. “Maybe chocolate?”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth curved up. “No, thank you.” 

Greg marched up to the counter. “I’ll have the lychee in a medium cone with rainbow sprinkles, please. And my husband—” Could that be a note of pride in his voice? “—will have the cantaloupe in a small cup.” 

Grinning, Greg paid for the both of them, and he told the girl to keep the change.  

They sat outside, knees touching lightly under a small metal table. A nearby couple vacating a larger one didn’t go unnoticed, but neither Greg nor Mycroft made the motion to move. 

Greg had finished a quarter of his cone before he looked quizzically at Mycroft. “You haven’t taken more than a bite,” he said. “Don’t you like it? We can switch.” 

It had been years since Mycroft had let anyone watch him eat, and he feared losing control in front of Greg right there in the middle of the neighbourhood. One bite, and then two, and then the world would spin around him and the rest would be gone in a matter of seconds. He would taste none of it, and afterwards he’d give in to the urge to get more. It was a scene he knew well, for he’d acted it countless times. 

Curious and starting to look a little concerned, Greg asked if he was feeling well.

Mycroft nodded. “Apologies—I fear I’m still a little disoriented from the day’s events.”

Greg laughed. “You and me both. We’ll hurry home after groceries, yeah, and I’ll make us dinner. You just have a lie-down. I’ll handle it, tonight.”

“I’ll cook,” said Mycroft quickly. “I’d like to.” It was true. Greg had been so thoughtful that he suddenly felt the need to express his gratitude in some concrete way. 

Mycroft took a deep breath, spooned a small amount of gelato into his mouth. The flavour exploded bright on his tongue. With surprise he found himself holding it in his mouth, savouring the dessert as it melted. 

“Good, isn’t it?” said Greg, who was licking steadily at his own cone. “Try some?” He held it out to Mycroft, who hesitated and then took a small bite.

Again Mycroft tasted the lychee before swallowing. He felt some of the anxiety dissolve with it. 

Feeling somewhat triumphant, he offered Greg his own cup. Greg swilled his tongue against the spoon, and Mycroft felt a flash of desire. He stifled it, nails biting into his palm.

Then Mycroft took another bite, just to have something to do, and this one slid down his throat before he'd realized it. He clenched his fist harder beneath the table—thankfully only a little bit of the gelato remained. If Greg weren't there he’d tip it all into his mouth, but that wasn’t an option this moment. 

Starting to panic, Mycroft pushed the paper cup across the table. “I’m suddenly rather full,” he managed, even as his stomach growled. “Would you like the last of it?” 

Greg obliged, and Mycroft felt the tension in his chest dissipate. They stood together, Greg pausing briefly to toss the rubbish, and then his warm hand slipped into Mycroft’s. 

“Thank you for taking me out,” said Mycroft, suddenly shy. 

Greg gave a firm squeeze. “Thank _you,_ for letting me. To the grocer’s?”

“To the grocer’s.” 

And they set off, hand in hand, each reveling quietly in the wonder of it all. 

* * *

Back at home, Mycroft carefully laid out two pieces of salmon and  a handful of asparagus on a wooden chopping board. 

Mycroft had asked Greg to pick out the groceries and then insisted on paying. Greg had been privately relieved, as the place had been rather upscale. Everything here was new and shiny and expensive, and although it was charming in its novelty he couldn’t help but feel like he didn’t belong. He missed his flat, lonely though it had been. Vaguely he wondered if Mycroft would accompany him to Rob’s someday. He hoped they'd get along—he’d told Rob of the marriage only yesterday, and he had sounded eager to meet Mycroft. Ella would love him, for she loved everyone.

The kitchen was top-of-the-range and spotlessly clean, although of course Greg had expected nothing less. There was a _spice rack._ Greg only ever used salt and pepper that came in packets he’d nicked from chain restaurants, and so he sniffed his way curiously through the little vials. Saffron and vanilla were his favourites, he decided. 

“Teriyaki, miso or neither?” inquired Mycroft. “How would you like your asparagus?” 

“Not had either, so surprise me,’ Greg said amiably. “And, um, cooked?” he guessed, feeling very much out of his depth as Mycroft chopped and diced and whisked, flitting from countertop to oven to stove.

“Can I help?” he asked. 

Mycroft looked surprised. “You needn’t, but you’re of course welcome to.” 

He handed Greg a mass of ginger. “Would you please julienne this?” 

Greg had heard the term, but he didn’t know exactly what that looked like. He looked up—Mycroft was sautéing garlic and onion on the stove. Best not to disturb him, then. Shrugging, Greg decided that cutting was cutting and if he just sliced it into pieces all would be well. 

“Smells nice,” he called to Mycroft, who tossed the contents of the pan at least half a metre high…and then caught every last piece. Greg whistled, admiring. Was there anything he couldn’t do?

Unicycle, Greg decided. If it turned out Mycroft could unicycle he’d eat his hat. 

Presently Mycroft asked for the ginger and Greg handed the bowl over proudly. He’d cut the root into tiny, exact cubes.

Mycroft paused, bowl in hand, and Greg saw that he was frowning.

_Oh, no. I fucked up._

“I _think_ I asked you to julienne the ginger, yes?”

Greg scuffed his feet against the floor. “Yeah…but I didn’t know what it meant.”

“Did you use all of it?” 

Another scuff. “Maybe.” 

Mycroft surveyed the little cubes, looking utterly dismayed. 

A long moment passed, and then he started to chuckle, a deep and hearty sound that took Greg by surprise. Soon Greg joined him, and then he was rolling on Mycroft’s floor, and he doubted anyone had ever rolled on the floor in the _whole neighbourhood,_ and Mycroft was standing, still holding the bowl of not-julienned ginger and laughing down at Greg. Greg reached up and tugged him down, and they laughed until Mycroft gasped, “Salmon’s—going—to—burn,” and Greg hurriedly went to go check. 

It seemed burned to him, but Mycroft pronounced it beautifully crusted and that was that. 

Mycroft gave the sauce—which smelled _heavenly—_ a stir, and produced a carrot which he peeled deftly within seconds. 

“Here,” he said. “Watch as I cut this.” 

And he sliced the carrot lengthwise, until there were a number of flat orange strips on the board before him. He gathered them up, stacking them in threes, and began to slice the stacks into fine strips.  

Greg took the knife at Mycroft’s gesture, and pressed it into the carrot. It got halfway through before slipping, and Greg was left with a useless little stick of carrot. 

“That’s an excellent start,” Mycroft nodded approvingly, “but you could use more pressure so it slices through. If you’d give me a moment.” He undid his cufflinks— _were those pearls?—_ in one fluid motion, rolled his sleeves up to expose the milky skin at his wrists. Then his forearms were exposed, and Greg wanted to feel the fine red hair against his palms—to run his hands against the smooth skin underneath, and _touch._ He ached with it, and it was all he could do not to take Mycroft by the elbows there and then and press their lips together. Greg could almost taste Mycroft’s dusky mouth, sweet and yielding against his.

Mycroft slipped behind him, gently holding his hand over the knife in Greg’s grasp. Greg nearly stumbled at the jolt of electricity that ran up his arm and straight through his core, but with effort he stayed upright. 

Mycroft was _oblivious._

Their hands started to move, Mycroft’s palm cool against burning skin. His other hand, softly commanding, gripped Greg’s shoulder for purchase. It took every ounce of Greg’s self-control to stand there silently, letting Mycroft chop the carrot over him. If only he could freeze time—stand here for the rest of his life with buttons grazing his back, a strong hand on his shoulder and another slotted between his fingers—he’d julienne carrots with Mycroft Holmes forever. 

He forced himself to look at the growing pile of carrot shreds, and then Mycroft stepped away and motioned to the last slab of carrot. 

“You try,” he said, and the result seemed to please him. “You’re a quick learner,” smiled Mycroft, and Greg melted a little. 

Mycroft went to check on the sauce, pouring some sort of alcohol from a little glass bottle in a smooth, practised stream. 

The timer on the oven rang, and Greg could see that the asparagus had browned beneath its blanket of parmesan and breadcrumbs. 

Mycroft shooed him into the dining room. 

“Only if you’ll let me wash up,” Greg said. 

“You’re welcome to the task,” conceded Mycroft. “Now _go,_ so I can get your dinner.” 

He reappeared in the doorway minutes later, bearing a laden tray. Carefully, Mycroft set a plate of steaming rice before him, onto which he ladled a creamy sauce and a piece of salmon, golden brown around the edges. He put down a plate of asparagus, nodded. “Help yourself.” 

Mycroft disappeared again, and came back holding the small bottle of alcohol, two ceramic cups and a tiny wooden box. 

Greg watched curiously as Mycroft nested a cup in the box, tipped the bottle against its lip. He poured until the little cup was full, and then poured a little more so it spilled into the box. 

“The box is called a _masu,_ ” said Mycroft. “It’s traditionally considered good service in some places to pour until the sake overflows. I was gifted the set on a business trip to Japan.”

Mycroft took a seat across from Greg, served himself the smaller piece of salmon. When he’d finished pouring the sake into the cup, Greg lifted his from the wooden box and raised it.

“To our marriage,” he said. His heart was full with something he couldn't describe.

Mycroft, eyes soft, raised his own glass. “To our marriage,” he agreed. “May it be a happy one.” He clinked the glass lightly against Greg’s and sipped it. 

Greg followed suit. The drink went down smoothly. It was the most delicate alcohol he’d ever tasted, the sweet and vaguely nutty flavours subtle as the drink washed over his tongue. 

Greg took a bite of the salmon. Mycroft had been right—the crust was gloriously crisp. Scraping the rice into the little pool of creamy liquid, Greg tried a spoonful. 

“Mycroft,” he said around a mouthful of perfectly-cooked rice, “this is _amazing._ ”

The sauce was spiced to perfection, a mildly earthy taste Greg could only assume was the miso easily tempering its richness. 

He bit into a spear of asparagus next. Mycroft had only put a pinch of parmesan and another of breadcrumbs into the dish—Greg had _watched—_ and yet it tasted more sinfully delicious than vegetables had any right to be. 

Mycroft was watching him, a pleased smile playing about his lips. Satisfied with Greg’s reaction, he started to eat his own meal in quick, precise bites. 

Greg was glad the man had regained his appetite. The meal was entirely too delicious for him to miss, although he suspected at this point that anything Mycroft so much as _touched_ instantly became a culinary masterpiece. 

There was something hypnotising about the way Mycroft’s hand lifted to his mouth, dipped to the plate and returned. Every so often the motions would slow, Mycroft’s nose flaring with obvious enjoyment, but without fail they’d speed up again until Mycroft seemed to catch himself. 

Greg watched the cycle repeat seven times before he realised that something was off. “Here,” Greg said. “Try drinking between bites, or talking. Something to stall for time.” 

He didn’t know if he’d overstepped his bounds, but he wanted to help. As a young child, Ella had done something similar, eating so quickly it made her sick—something to do with delayed ghrelin inhibition, if he remembered correctly. Spacing her bites between sips of water had worked.

Mycroft flushed, but he followed Greg’s suggestion. Greg felt a flicker of pride as the rhythm of his bites remained steady, a stark contrast to the erratic tempo it had been just moments previously. 

“Thank you,” Mycroft said after a few minutes, looking somewhat astonished. 

“My pleasure,” said Greg. “Thank you, for the lovely meal. Best I’ve had in years.”

Mycroft’s eyes shone with pride even as he ducked his head.

They washed up together, despite Greg’s protests.


	12. Arrangements

Mycroft and Greg sat quietly before the aquarium, Mycroft buried in a book and Greg watching the fish. He liked the yellow boxfish best—it looked delightfully dopey. If he were a fish, he’d be one of those. Or maybe a goldfish. 

Greg sneaked a look at Mycroft from the corner of his eye. He was bent over the thick, moth-eaten book, a peaceful expression on his face as he turned the pages with reverent care.

“What are you reading?” asked Greg presently. “Something I might like?”

Mycroft startled slightly. “Le Fantôme de l'Opéra,” he said, the words musical in his quiet voice. “The Phantom of the Opera—have you read the story?”

“I’ve seen the films,” offered Greg doubtfully. 

Mycroft’s face took on a faraway look. “As a young boy I thought the silent film delightfully gory,” he admitted, chuckling a little. “I haven’t seen the film musical, but I was fortunate enough to attend a performance in the West End. Both beautiful works in their own right, but I find that the novel remains my favourite.”

A deep breath. “The copy I’m reading now is in French, but you might borrow the translation, if you like.”

Greg sensed that this was not an offer Mycroft extended lightly. He nodded, and Mycroft reached over to retrieve a leather-bound book from the shelf. 

“You’ll be careful with it,” he said anxiously, as the book transferred hands. 

Greg took it with the same care he used when handling a particularly fragile piece of evidence. He opened his mouth to thank Mycroft, but a yawn came out instead.

“I fear it grows late,” Mycroft said. “I hope I haven’t kept you up.” 

“No worries,” said Greg, stifling another yawn. “Just tired from the day—I don’t usually go to sleep for an hour yet. Do you?”

“Usually,” said Mycroft, “But I find myself amenable to lingering a short while yet, if you wish. It has been a pleasant evening.” 

Greg caught his hand, squeezed tightly. “I think so, too.”

He searched within himself for a small seed of bravery, and found it. “Have you got work to do, tomorrow? It’s Sunday.”

Mycroft tilted his head. “I do not, barring emergency—why do you ask?

“I was thinking of popping by my brother Rob’s. I usually go on Sunday morning, that’s when my da’ visits. Been a while. Maybe—maybe you could come? Only if you want, of course.”

“I would be honoured.”

Mycroft’s readiness was surprising at first, and then Greg remembered that Mycroft was by all accounts a perfect gentleman and wouldn’t dream of not going ‘round to his in-laws’ for tea if invited. He wondered if he should take that win and move on, or push his luck further.

_Fuck it._

“And, em...Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s look was sharp. “Yes?”

Greg swallowed audibly. “Look, about Sherlock.”

Mycroft reached for the umbrella he’d put up against the end of the couch, pressed the pad of his thumb into its handle. Produced a handkerchief and started to polish the wood fastidiously. 

“About Sherlock.” His voice could have cut through steel.

“What he said wasn’t acceptable. You know that, yeah?”

Mycroft sounded pained. “Of _course_ I know.” He dug the tip of the umbrella into the rich Persian rug. “But he’s my brother. My hands are tied. They always have been.”

“But mine aren’t.” Greg’s tone was firm. “I’m not about to stand by while he bullies you and makes false accusations about me. It’s unfair to the both of us.”

Mycroft met his eyes for the first time since the topic had been broached, and Greg was dismayed to note the thinly-veiled panic amidst the pale grey. “What do you mean, ‘not about to stand by’? Lestrade, Sherlock is—Sherlock is an annoyance, but I assure you that my brother is ultimately harmless.”

_Please don’t shut me out. It’s Greg, not Lestrade._

Greg tried again. “Mycroft, I like Sherlock. I respect your brother—I’m not his enemy. You obviously care for him a great deal. At the same time, he said something pretty goddamn awful, and I’ve got to say _something_ about it.”

“He gives as good as he gets,” Mycroft spoke tonelessly, but at least some of the tension had dissipated.

Sighing, Greg decided that he wasn’t about to get anywhere. It was true that Mycroft often took digs at Sherlock, many of them unfair. Possibly it was just how the Holmes brothers showed affection, and each insult masked a declaration of love? More likely they each had a lot of learning about interpersonal relationships to do. Greg imagined couples’ therapy might be a good start. 

“I promised John I’d be at the flat a bit after noon. Going to sort this out with Sherlock, so it doesn’t happen again. I’m going, but you don’t have to if you’d rather not.”

Mycroft twirled his umbrella, caught it neatly.

“I shall be there. I have yet to speak to John about the new driver.” His tones were measured, calm.

“Great.” Greg shot him a lopsided smile, and then yawned again.

“Bedtime, I think,” said Mycroft, rising. He offered Greg a polite hand. 

Greg rose, the borrowed book clutched tightly to his chest. He grabbed a shirt and a pair of shorts from the cardboard box he’d left by the stairs. Together they ascended the gleaming wooden staircase, Greg starting to sag a little.

Mycroft pointed to a door that had been left slightly ajar, across the landing from his bedroom. 

“You’re welcome to use my bathroom—I’ll be in the adjacent one should anything arise.”

 Greg brushed his teeth and changed quickly, not wanting Mycroft to think he’d been prying. 

All the same, he couldn’t help but marvel a little. 

_Mycroft Holmes’s bathroom. The stuff of legends._

It was—rather underwhelming, really. Nary a gold toilet seat in sight. Still, it was clean and tidy and equipped with a large claw-footed tub, which was what mattered in the end, and infinitely more useful than a shiny commode. 

Greg could get used to posh. 

The door to the other bathroom was still shut when Greg returned to Mycroft’s room. He opened the door warily, checking for butterfly escapes, before slipping in and settling down on the edge of the bed to read. 

By the time Mycroft appeared in the doorway, hair damp with water and smelling of lemongrass, Greg was well into the first chapter. 

Mycroft nodded at the book in his hands. “Does it suit your tastes, so far?”

It was antiquated, as far as prose went, and Greg had no doubt that much of the charm of the original had been lost in translation. It was engaging nonetheless, not least because this was a book Mycroft loved. A step into Mycroft’s world. Greg dearly wanted to understand the brilliant, mercurial masterpiece that was his husband. A riddle, wrapped in an mystery, inside a _very_ handsome enigma. 

“I like it,” he said. “Been ages since I picked up a book—nice to read something that isn’t a case-file.” He looked down at the page, realised Joseph Buquet had just been unceremoniously killed. “Although it might as well be.” 

Mycroft laughed. It was a delightful sound. 

Carefully bookmarking the page, Greg set the novel next to Mycroft’s on the bedside table. 

“So they won’t be lonely in the night,” he quipped. “Speaking of—how are we doing this?” 

“You’re welcome to the bed,” Mycroft said. “I have a portable mattress.” Be that as it may, Greg noticed that he made no move to retrieve it. 

“Or,” said Greg, heart thumping in his chest so strongly he was sure Mycroft would hear, “since we’ve already established we both fit, we might see if that holds true overnight?”

Mycroft’s expression was unreadable. “We might.” A teasing smile spread slowly across his face. “Although given your proclivity to sprawl, ‘both fit’ might be an exaggeration.”

“Sheet-stealer,” Greg returned, but there was no heat to his words. He got into bed, deliberately staying as close to the wall as possible. “You joining me? Or is the portable mattress too good to pass up?”

“Scamp.” But Mycroft crawled in anyway. He wriggled into the sheets in a way that reminded Greg of Seph in winter, on the rug by the fire. And no wonder—the sheets were the softest Greg had ever felt. “Come here,” said Mycroft, tugging him away from the wall but not quite into the middle of the bed. 

_Okay, darlin’. Take all the space you need…be here when you’re ready._

“Night,” Greg said, as Mycroft switched off the lamp. “Sweet dreams.” 

He heard Mycroft’s smile in his voice. “Sweet dreams.” 

And sweet they were, shadows of ice cream and julienned carrots and a cool hand in his.

* * *

Greg woke with an armful of Mycroft Holmes, who had most decidedly ventured onto _his_ side of the bed, thank you very much. He lay there for a while, enjoying the soft weight against his chest. How long had it been since he’d woken next to someone? Nearly two years, he realised with a start—he’d slept on the couch for the last few months of his failing marriage. He’d forgotten how nice it could be. 

Mycroft rolled over, and Greg was faintly amused to feel something nudging insistently against his thigh. 

_So you’re human, same as the rest of us._

He moved his leg cautiously away, even as parts of his own body announced their interest. It was what Mycroft would want—the man was obviously very uncomfortable with intimacy.

Greg didn’t know if that would last. He hoped not. For now, though…he edged out of the bed and into an icy shower. 

* * *

 Mycroft, dressed customarily in a suit, was sitting at his desk when Greg returned. 

“Are you going somewhere?” he asked in surprise. 

A reproachful look. “We are making a trip to your brother’s house, are we not?”

“Right…but this is my _brother._ He lives in the East End. Hackney Downs.”

“Manners are manners,” said Mycroft, but he returned his jacket to an extraordinarily neat closet with a wistful sigh. All his suits had been moved to the left side. “You’re welcome to store your clothes here, if you like.” 

“Thanks—just might.” Digging for clothes in the cardboard box was starting to lose its novelty. “Let’s go.”

 


	13. Grace

Mycroft stepped out of the car nervously, although he did his best to keep his expression measured. A small house stood before them. Although it was well-kept it conveyed an air of faint shabbiness, and as Mycroft looked more closely he could see that the house had been subjected to numerous makeshift repairs. Its pipes appeared to be held together with—he frowned—plastic bags and _putty._ It was wondrous to him nonetheless.

_This is where Greg’s life is._

He’d been secretly pleased when Greg had invited him to his brother’s house. It felt like he had made the acquaintance of Ella, Rob and Seph already, given that Greg mentioned them about every half-hour. He didn’t have designs on _forming relationships_ with them, but knowing Greg’s family was crucial to a deeper understanding of his history and the man that he’d grown to be. A purely functional curiosity, of course, given that their lives were now entwined.

“Ready?” asked Greg, smiling. “They’ll love you, I know it.” He rang the doorbell.

_Love. What do I know of love, that comes from a source other than an unhealthy proclivity for romantic literature?_

Nothing. The answer was nothing, as it had always been. Mycroft was fond of the art inspired by the idea, but it was not a concept that was at play in his own life. Love was little more than a fairy-tale. He imagined it might be pleasant to subscribe to, although ultimately foolish. He would never know; the illusion of _love_ was a privilege that did not belong to him.

Knowing the fates of Cathy and Heathcliff, of Orpheus and Eurydice—the tragic story of the Phantom beneath his opera house—he was perhaps fortunate not to believe. 

As they stood before the gate, Mycroft was distracted from his thoughts by a volley of barking and a dark-haired figure hurtling towards them. The girl flung the gate open, barreling straight into Greg’s arms. 

“Uncle Greg!” she cried joyfully. Mycroft took a wary step backwards as he hoisted the girl bodily into the air, upon which she shrieked with a combination of glee and horror. 

“Uncle Greg, I’m too _old_. I’m a _teenager._ ”

Greg set her down, ruffled her hair fondly. “Not yet you aren’t—still a precious year to go and then some. Let your Uncle Greg enjoy the last of it, won’t you?”

With her feet now planted firmly on the ground, Ella turned to Mycroft. “Hello,” she said brightly. Mycroft stuck out his hand, but Ella threw her arms around his neck instead.

“You must be Uncle Mycroft,” she mumbled into his shoulder. Mycroft gingerly lifted a hand, patting her back as though she were a particularly thin piece of glass. 

She stepped back, smiled up at Mycroft shyly. “Dad and I made you something. Come on, we’ve been waiting _all morning!_ ”

Greg took her hand, led the way into the cramped sitting room. Seph rushed up to Greg, limping only a little and barking madly.

Greg knelt, ruffled her fur. “Hey, girl. Missed you too, although I bet Ella’s tons more fun than I am. You’ll be back with me soon enough…enjoy the vacation while it lasts, huh?”

Seph stood up on her two hind legs and batted insistently at Greg’s hair with her remaining paw. 

“God, you’re even more demanding than your young master now, yeah?” There was no heat in his tone. “Come here, you.” And he gathered her into his arms, where she proceeded to lick his face thoroughly. Greg didn’t seem to mind, and buried his face in her fur. Mycroft tried not to think about germs. 

With Seph thus distracted, Mycroft turned his attention to the room. There were but two armchairs, a tattered sofa, an ancient television and—was that an _organ?_ Yes, it must be, a two-octave pedalboard, two consoles with yellowed keys _—_ in the way of furniture. The walls had been papered over with crayon drawings that graduated into oil paintings, and photographs of Ella and Rob. Some of them, as well as a good number of the art pieces, included a smiling woman with kind eyes. 

Mycroft’s hand was caught by a man who looked exactly like Greg, only a little taller and stouter. 

“Mycroft!” Rob patted him heartily on the back, and Mycroft’s knees nearly buckled. Lord, but the man was strong. “Sit down…have a drink.” He disappeared into a tiny kitchen, Greg and Seph at his heels. Mycroft could just barely make out a kettle boiling merrily on the stove, a refrigerator that looked as though it had seen better days. It too was covered in drawings and photographs held up by dollar-store magnets. 

Mycroft’s eyes flickered back across the wall. He searched it for a moment, seeking the pair of shining eyes he’d grown to know well in the past week. There they were—smiling brilliantly at the camera as the toddler in his arms slept peacefully, Greg’s hair black and a little spiky. The woman at his side was dressed to kill, her blonde locks perfectly curled, crocodile skin handbag perched _just so_ on her arm. Her other arm was wrapped around Greg’s waist, under his leather jacket. 

It shouldn’t have bothered him, the picture was a decade old, for God’s sake _—_ but Mycroft’s heart twisted painfully in his chest. The glowing faces spoke of familiarity and happy memories and the blush of romance. Of course the woman was gorgeous. Of course she was slim, of course she was absolutely perfect. 

Of course she was as far from Mycroft as anyone could possibly be. 

By God, why did Greg seem so infernally _happy?_ Mycroft had known him five years now—he’d never seen that look on his face. He was generally good-natured, yes, sometimes annoyingly enthusiastic—but never truly joyful. That had all been replaced by a lined face, greying fair and a careworn expression. He’d thought Greg happy, but it appeared that Mycroft had seen but a shadow of the man he had been.

“Here, Uncle Mycroft,” said a cheerful voice, and a folded piece of paper was placed into his hands. He opened it, wary of finding another old family photograph. But no, what greeted him was a painting—the strokes clumsy but promising. Two silver-haired men, one slim and one stocky, each holding a hand of the beaming girl between them, two braids slung over her shoulders. She’d painted a muddy lump between her and Greg for whatever reason. Greg had mentioned an interest in chemistry…perhaps she studied geology as well? 

He squinted closer. Ella had helpfully included labels—Papa, Uncle Greg and Ella Lestrade. Ah, the lump was supposed to be Seph. Certainly the likeness was uncanny. 

 There was a shadowy figure slung over ‘Uncle Greg’s’ left shoulder, grinning with a thumb held exuberantly up. The speech bubble above him tidily proclaimed that Uncle Greg was the BEST HUSBAND EVER, and the one between Ella and her father read ‘WELCOME TO THE FAMILY! We are happy to have you.’ 

The note on the page opposite was written in a large, adult scrawl.

_Congratulations—hope you and Greg are very happy together. He is a very good person…you’ve found a treasure! Speaks of you often…good things (mostly). Looking forward to getting to know you._

_Love, Rob and Ella_

Mycroft swallowed against the tightness in his throat and looked up. Ella was smiling still—Greg’s smile, he realised with a pang. That same lovely unselfconsciousness, the warmth. If his parents had smiled like Greg, his childhood would have been very different. 

Rob and Greg returned, bearing cups of tea and Ribena. Seph, he was informed, had been detained in the kitchen until Grandpa Lestrade’s arrival. Upon accepting the cup Greg held out, Mycroft found that milk and one sugar had been added. A customary small indulgence, although he hadn’t noticed Greg studying the way he took his tea. 

The doorbell rang. Ella shrieked and ran outside, and the excited barking commenced once more. 

An elderly man strode through the gate, his steps surprisingly limber for a man whose hair was snow white. Although it seemed that was a hereditary factor amongst all members of the Lestrade clan. Mycroft pegged him as being in his early seventies from the regal, upright gait. Yet—he frowned as the man grasped Ella’s little hand tightly in both of his—that wasn’t just the walk of a particularly dignified grandfather, it was the bearing of an experienced soldier. He noted the haircut…military, of course. Likely a World War II veteran, then, which identified him as being in remarkably good health for a man eighty-odd years of age.

Mycroft inclined his head slightly as the man walked in with Ella. His gesture was met with a sharp, approving look. Although his blue gaze was peculiarly alert, there were pronounced white rings around his corneas. Arcus senilis, Mycroft’s mind supplied. In other words, the man was very old. 

He stood, offered his hand. “Good morning, Colonel Lestrade. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

A gasp of surprise from Rob. “How does he know, Uncle Greg?” came  Ella’s whisper. 

“He’s very clever, your Uncle Mycroft,” Greg murmured back. 

A hearty laugh from the old man. “The pleasure is mine. And please, call me Isaac.”

Mycroft released his hand, nodding. “Isaac.”

Isaac turned his attention to Greg. “A far wiser choice than your last. You will be happy together.”

Greg blushed. “Father! Lucky, yes, but just an arrangement for the Marriage Law.”

That hurt a little. 

Isaac levelled a gaze at them both. “Is it?” he asked, letting the question hang in the air as he turned his attention back to Ella. “Have you been keeping up with your study of music, young lady?”

“I’ve _tried,_ Grandpa, but it’s very difficult to play Bach when your feet don’t reach the pedals.” She climbed up on the organ bench, wriggled her legs to demonstrate. “And I’m not very good with my fingers, either. It doesn’t sound half so beautiful as when you play, Grandpa.” She looked up at him, imploring. “Won’t you play something?”

“Ella, Grandpa’s only just got here. Hasn’t even had a drink. Let him sit down, love.” 

Isaac ignored Rob’s gentle chiding, sat himself on the creaking wooden bench. “Would you do the honour of choosing a hymn?” he asked Mycroft. 

“Amazing Grace.” Mycroft didn’t know where the words had come from—it had been an age since he’d last attended church. Uncle Rudy’s funeral. 

He’d attended alone.

The old man began the tune lovingly—a little sadly, Mycroft thought, as the strains cut straight through his heart. Beautiful, all the same. Ella climbed up beside her grandfather, started to sing with a clear, childish soprano.

The smile on Isaac’s face was unmistakeable, even in profile.

Greg and Rob let Ella’s voice ring through the house, each sitting quietly as grandfather and granddaughter filled the room with music. The brothers joined in, each taking a voice part, on the penultimate verse, the voices obviously all accustomed to the nuances of the others. It was a well-practiced family tradition, and there was an unfamiliar warmth in Mycroft’s chest as he watched the earnest faces before him. 

He felt as if he ought to sing, too, when the last verse began and the voices came together in unison. He dearly wanted to, but he didn’t know the words, and so he just held tightly to Greg’s hand. It was not, after all, _his_ family. 

Greg never once loosened his grip, even as the four of them made their way through more Christmas carols than Mycroft had known existed. “It’s just _past_ Christmas, sweet pea,” protested her father, to which Ella said, “But I like them best,” and Isaac just played on. 

When the voices finally started to waver, Isaac put his arm tenderly around Ella’s little shoulders, presented her with a sheet of paper that he’d photocopied that morning at the library, and asked if she’d do him the pleasure of learning ‘Abide With Me’. It was his favourite, he said, and he'd waited a good many years for Ella’s fingers to grow long enough to reach the chords. 

“In a few years,” he added, “maybe by the time you graduate from primary school, you’ll be able to play the pedals. Your mum played it beautifully, and you will too.” 

Ella looked doubtful, but she promised to try. 

By-and-by Greg announced that they had to get going if they were to be at Baker Street on time, and Mycroft realised with a start that they’d been at Greg’s for hours. It hadn’t felt so—he wanted to stay longer. Alas! appointments were appointments, and Sherlock awaited. 

Greg disappeared into the kitchen to bid Seph goodbye, and Mycroft was subjected to a deluge of hugs and another round of congratulations from Rob and Ella. He made his way to where Isaac was sitting, and was surprised to find himself in a final embrace. It was an unexpectedly fragile one, and Mycroft was careful as he tightened his arms around his father-in-law’s back. 

“Greg loves you,” Isaac murmured into his shoulder. “You’ll return it in time, won’t you? Good man.” He released Mycroft with a knowing smile. 

Mycroft, nodding shakily, felt like a liar. 

_What do I know about love?_

* * *

They stopped first by Mycroft’s house, where he slipped his jacket back on like a suit of armour. Greg stayed downstairs—said he was peckish and going to fix a sandwich. Mycroft was touched to notice that another had been neatly packed when he stepped back down. 

“Turkey and cheese,” said Greg. “Hope that’s okay.” 

More than okay, as it turned out. Although the sandwich had been made with ingredients Greg had found in his refrigerator, it tasted like nothing he’d ever made for himself. He noticed a sort of tang, lifted the top piece of bread in the back of the car. Mustard, in the shape of a smiling face, nestled between the lettuce and tomato. 

Mycroft generally hated yellow mustard—reeked of desperation, Uncle Rudy had once said—but he ate it without complaint and thought to himself that yellow mustard in squeezable plastic bottles was a wonderful invention indeed. 

* * *

John opened the door, and Greg checked Mycroft's expression worriedly. It betrayed nothing, as usual. 

“Come on in,” said John warmly, with a nod towards the living room. Sherlock was already sitting in his chair, scowling. 

“Dr. Watson, if you'd first be so kind as to put me in contact with Michael Stamford…” he heard Mycroft say quietly to John. 

“Yes, I told him to come ‘round at two-ish…give Anthea the rest of Sunday off from driving. I hope that’s alright? I told him to be prepared in case you didn’t want him today. I’ve have asked, only you haven’t been answering your calls,” John said a little reproachfully. “I’ve been worried.” 

Mycroft just said that he’d be happy to have Dr. Stamford pick them up. He sat across from Sherlock, avoiding his brother’s gaze. 

“You’ve put on more weight,” said Sherlock acidly. “You’ve replaced the buttons on your waistcoat twice in the last three days, and _that_ one was two sizes up from a month ago. I wager it’ll be another week or so before you’re replacing the jacket.” He leant forward, smiling with faux sweetness. His voice dripped with it. “Domestic bliss?”

Mycroft glared at his brother. Greg opened his mouth to defend him, but Mycroft spoke first. “ _You’ve been using again._ ”

“No, he hasn’t,” said John. “Sherlock, tell him you haven’t.” There was a note of panic in his voice. 

Sherlock said nothing.

“ _Sherlock,_ ” sighed John. There was an expression of immeasurable despair on his face. Greg knew that disappointment, deep and biting. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft bit out. “ _What—is—the—matter?_ ”

Sherlock looked up, sneered. Greg could almost see his canines. “You.” 

Greg watched the words find their target and strike, watched Mycroft try to brush them off even as his eyes— _his eyes—_ flashed with pain. It was painful to witness. 

Mycroft raised himself from the seat and moved to stand before the window, facing outwards. “Dr. Watson, please check over him.” 

John knelt before Sherlock, movements agitated. Greg just watched as he held Sherlock’s eyelids open and peered into them with clinical detachment. He looked away as John checked Sherlock’s mouth, muttering about broken promises. 

“Sherlock,” Greg finally said. “This is completely unacceptable. Do you realize I could have you in prison within the hour?”

Both heads snapped up to look at him with identical expressions, as if they'd never before considered the prospect. In all likelihood, they hadn’t. Sherlock Holmes was, generally speaking, above the law.

Thanks in great part to his brother, but Greg wasn’t about to tell him that if he didn’t know already. 

Mycroft hadn’t moved from his place by the window. Greg debated for a moment, and decided he was safer over there.

“Sherlock,” Greg said urgently. The fury was setting in—the knowledge of what Sherlock had done to himself, and the way it had backfired to hurt his loved ones. He didn’t doubt that Sherlock hadn’t _meant_ it, but that didn’t make it any better. “Look at me. Look. At. Me.” Sherlock raised his head again, eyes unfocussed and seeming to look straight through him.

“John loves you. Mycroft loves you, and _I bloody well care about you._ We all do. What have you got to say for yourself—and so help me, if it isn’t good, I’m sending Sally over, and I promise she’s going to be a hell of a lot less lenient than I am.”

“What,” said Sherlock tiredly, “does my brother know about love?” Greg frowned, started to say _a hell of a lot more than you do,_ but caught Mycroft’s raised hand just in time. His husband had turned to face Sherlock, although he still leaned heavily against the window.

Sherlock’s head dipped, and he drew his knees up and rested his chin on them. He looked suddenly very young, as he sat in his oversized dressing gown. “He never even bothered to say that the two of you were seeing each other.”

Was _that_ what this was about?

“I thought you’d have worked it out, clever as you are,” said Mycroft. Greg recognized the veiled compliment, but Sherlock bridled at what he’d obviously thought was sarcasm. Greg had to admit that Mycroft’s delivery left much to be desired. But if he, an outsider, could read between the lines, what prevented Sherlock from doing the same?

The very thing that spurred his keen perspicacity, Greg realized. For all that the Holmes brothers were intellectual prodigies, they were absolute _idiots_ wherever feelings were involved. Yet, he reflected, both brothers were more than capable of understanding emotion. 

 _“_ I did, of course, months ago. But now you’ve gone and _married_ him, and _you found someone and decided to spend your life with him and you didn’t even bother telling me.”_ Sherlock was bordering on hysterical now. “I’m your brother, and you couldn’t even tell me you were going to marry one of my closest acquaintances.”

“Wait up,” said Greg. “ _Months?_ The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind ’til your brother showed up a week ago in my bloody office!”

The bright blue eyes narrowed. “I’m not stupid, and you well know it. My brother has been in contact with you since last June. I know it, don’t bother with denial. He’s bought a membership to the cafe, for God’s sake. Wise, when you meet there every Wednesday for half a year. Don’t you _dare_ tell me I’m wrong, when Mycroft comes ‘round Thursday mornings smiling like a schoolgirl.”

Greg’s eyes held Mycroft’s, stunned. 

Sherlock was right, of course. It had started years ago, when Mycroft had had Anthea drop Greg off in an old amusement park on the outskirts of London. He hadn’t known who Mycroft was, then—didn’t even know Sherlock as anything other than a particularly clever civilian with a knack for interpreting evidence. Greg had sat there in a ferris wheel capsule that creaked ominously as he got in, and a tall handsome stranger with flaming red hair had taken the seat next to him, closed the door and started the ride. 

By the time they’d got to the top, Greg had been smitten and Mycroft had been convinced that Detective Inspector Lestrade was a man who could be trusted around his volatile little brother. He was perhaps a little too rakishly handsome for his own good, but then again there was something about _everyone._

By the time they’d reached the ground again, Greg had had three angry texts from his girlfriend Lisa, and he’d stepped out utterly distracted. Mycroft had read the texts from the reflections in Greg’s eyes, and he’d stepped out utterly disillusioned. 

Such was life. 

But that first meeting had been followed by a text from Mycroft—just checking in, he said—and an update from Greg, and then the intervals between message threads had gone from months to weeks to days. Then they’d met for lunch in a cafe in Soho, and again the next week and the week after that, til Mycroft finally blocked out Thursday from noon to one as ‘ _please_ refrain from disturbing’, and Greg found himself powering through the omnipresent stack of paperwork with the thought that if he just got to lunch everything would be alright and Mycroft would be there.

Romance had been the furthest thing from their minds, of course. Anything more than tentative friendship was a bit of a stretch.

_Or was it?_

Greg didn’t know, and it wasn’t something worth thinking about this second. What he said instead was, “Sherlock, there was never anything overt between your brother and me. If there _was_ something below the surface, I wasn’t aware of it, and if Mycroft was and kept it from you he must have had his own reasons, and I know it must feel bloody awful but it’s his business.”

Sherlock seemed slightly pacified by this, so Greg continued. “I know you’re hurt. You’re allowed—I would be, too. But _this isn’t how you fucking handle it._ John Watson and Mycroft Holmes care more about you than a single other thing on the planet, and I’d put my life on that.” He swallowed, suddenly aware that everyone’s eyes were on him. “You don’t jump to conclusions without so much as asking anyone, and then lash out at your brother and me. You don’t deflect his concern by lambasting him.” 

Greg watched as the bleary eyes narrowed and came into razor-sharp focus. It angered him. On the ground next to Sherlock, John clenched his fists and stood up. The doctor, usually the mildest-mannered person Greg knew, looked _furious._

“And,” John said, “you don’t fucking do this to yourself.” His voice broke. “You just _don’t._ ”

The doorbell rang. “That’ll be Mike,” said John, and he stormed out. Greg jerked his head towards the door. “Mycroft, we should go. We’ll have Molly ‘round to deal with things.” 

Mycroft stayed where he was. “You have my address? I’ll be back in a few hours.” 

“I’m staying,” said Greg stubbornly. 

“Please, Greg. It’s imperative that I stay, _alone._ ” 

Greg knew he wasn’t about to get anywhere. He turned to Sherlock. “You say _one word_ to hurt him, and you’re never going to see the outside of a jail cell. I swear it.” 

He walked over and folded Mycroft into his arms. 

_Stay with me, darlin’. I’ll protect you with my life. I wish I could follow you into the fire, but if you’ve got to do this alone then you’ve got to._

“You know where to find me,” he said. It was both a statement and a question.

Mycroft held him a little tighter. “Yes,” he said. “I do.” 

 


	14. The Scorpion and the Grasshopper

If you turn the scorpion round, that will mean to me, when I return that you have said yes. The grasshopper will mean no... The grasshopper, be careful of the grass hopper! A grasshopper does not only turn: it hops! It hops! And it hops jolly high!

-Gaston Leroux,  _The Phantom of the Opera_ (1910), translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos

* * *

When the door finally closed behind Greg, Sherlock’s head fell once again, eyes focussed on anything but Mycroft. If indeed they were focussing at all, which Mycroft highly doubted. 

It was difficult to watch.

How many times had he watched this very scene play out before him, in drug-dens and Baker Street and Mycroft’s own bedroom? It never got easier. 

“Sherlock,” he started carefully. _If Greg can do this, so can I._

_But Greg is—Greg. Kind and open and sincere. Everything that I am not._

Pale blue sought out sterling grey, at once childlike and accusing.

Mycroft might not be Greg, but he did happen to be a truly excellent negotiator.

“Ten minutes,” he said. “Ten minutes of honesty from you, and I promise the same.” 

Sherlock slid his gaze away. “If honesty is what you’re after, then why do you lie so often?”

“I do not—”

A raised eyebrow from Sherlock. “You’re not really setting a stellar example of ‘honesty’, brother.”

Mycroft pressed his fingers into the bridge of his nose. He hated that Sherlock was right.

“To protect you, Sherlock. You’ll forgive me, I hope, if I try at times to shield you from the atrocities of the world. You have always been—intense.”

“Why not _do_ something about it, rather than keep it from me?”

“I try, Sherlock. I try every day. But there are some things which are beyond my control. At every corner someone asks if it’ll be the scorpion or the grasshopper, and I never know which to turn.” 

So tired, every day. The weight of the world, always on his shoulders. Always wondering if he should have chosen differently. If he was doing the right thing, or driving everyone to their deaths. Mycroft drew his umbrella closer, clutching at it like a lifeline.

There was no way to know. 

Sherlock studied Mycroft’s pained expression, seemed to find the truth he was looking for. 

“I’m grown, now. Not a child.”

“I know that.” With some effort, he refrained from pointing out that Sherlock certainly acted like one much of the time. “It is, however, sometimes difficult for me to remember.   Hard to look at you and not remember the squalling infant who called me ‘Mykie’. I’ll always be your elder brother, and I’ll always protect you.” He swallowed, fully cognizant of what was about to change. “But I won’t lie to you any longer.”

“Nor omit anything of importance to me.” 

_There went the escape plan._

“Nor that.”

“You _truly_ hadn’t planned your union with Lestrade.” 

“Never, I swear it. I confess that I was—attracted—to him, but never intended to act on my compulsions.”

“He is good to you.” 

“Very much so. More than I could have imagined. He is a very decent man.” 

Sherlock relaxed visibly, then tensed again. “Mycroft. I apologise. I injured you and Greg grievously.”

“Yes, you did.”

Mycroft watched the words sting. He watched as Sherlock let them. That was unprecedented.

“How might I make it up to you?” Sherlock asked eventually. There was a hoarse quality to his words.

“No more cocaine…no more amphetamines. Your heart might be able to take it, but mine most certainly cannot. You’re playing with fire. Why do you?” 

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft through his eyelashes. “That’s the point. Fire burns, changes. Fire’s _interesting,_ when life is stagnant. Fire’s familiar to me when nothing else is.”

“John will leave for good. If he hasn’t already.”

That seemed to strike again at something deep within Sherlock, but he did not reply.

“It hurts me more than you can know. You’re destroying yourself.” 

Sherlock shrank a little further. “I—don’t know how to stop.”

“I’ll help you. Today’s list, please.” Mycroft forced his voice to remain steady, when all he wanted was to gather his little brother into his arms and promise him everything would be okay. 

Sherlock produced a list of the components to the drug cocktail he’d taken. Mycroft scanned it, and felt the great pressure in his chest release as he realised that it had all been rather tame. For Sherlock, at any rate.

“Greg will be over, to search the flat. I’ll be spot-checking, weekly.” 

Sherlock just nodded, still looking stricken.

“I’m going to have Anthea stay here for the night, unless you want to come with me instead. And you’ll apologise to Greg, and you’ll listen to what he’s got to say. He cares about you. We all do. Please don’t fight us, when we want only to help.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said with effort, “I’m so—so _sorry. I was awful._ ” His eyes, which Mycroft usually only ever saw glazed with boredom or indifference, were flooded with emotion. His entire body heaved with the force of it.

Mycroft took Sherlock’s head into his lap, stroked the damp curls the way he never had as a boy. The road ahead of them was a difficult one, paved with peril and hardship. Yet some wise part of him knew without a doubt that they’d traverse it together, and he held hope that what had been long broken might one day be fixed. 

* * *

 

Mycroft’s car was waiting for him when he left, Michael Stamford at the wheel. Dr. Watson stood on the kerb with a large suitcase, looking troubled.

“Hope it’s alright that I stayed,” he said. “Wanted to talk to you for a bit.” 

Mycroft tried to act as if he hadn't just seen the man’s life come crashing down. He’d been surprised to note Watson’s presence—Mycroft had rather got the impression that Sherlock’s friend didn’t like him very much. They were from very different worlds. 

Mycroft’s brows knitted as he took stock of the doctor’s countenance. He’d been short on food, water and sleep for what appeared to be months. Stress about the new relationship, perhaps? No—a single glance at the rest of his person betrayed the fact that there _was_ no new relationship. He’d not made any particular effort with his hair, nor his manner of dress. Mycroft rather suspected that the ring had been bought at the dollar store. Possible, then, that this was a romantic relationship with very little sentiment attached. Then again, that didn’t seem quite Watson’s style. Steeling himself for a mental image that might always remain in the back of his mind, he checked Watson’s stance. No, nothing telling there. His right sleeve—plenty. 

The man was celibate. It wasn’t unheard of to have a romantic relationship without intimacy, but in this case it was unlikely.

Watson adored Sherlock, it was patently obvious. Sherlock cared for him, very much so, but Mycroft would put money on the fact that he hadn’t yet registered the depth of his feelings, whether romantic or not, while Dr. Watson most certainly had. Mycroft had seen it in his expression of betrayal, standing there in the flat.

It was none of his business. 

“Yes, Dr. Watson?”

“Sherlock was godawful to you, at the wedding.”

“Yes. He was.”

“I should have gone after you. You were obviously upset. I’m sorry, I’ve felt awful about it since. It happened so quickly I didn’t know what to do, and without knowing anything about your relationship with Greg I wasn’t sure you’d want me to tell him. But,” he looked firmly up at Mycroft, “I should have gone after you.”

“Maybe so.” But it had happened, and hindsight was, after all, 20/20. All in all, Mycroft reflected, it had turned out rather well, although he’d pay a handsome sum of money _not_ to relieve the terror of that lonely evening. Watson had perhaps been irresponsible, but certainly not malicious. He had tried. Not terribly hard, but he had. “Sherlock’s words were his own. You’re neither his keeper nor his shadow, and you’d do well to realise that. Apology accepted, Dr. Watson, and we’ll let bygones be bygones.”

“Thank you,” said the doctor with some relief. “Sherlock was wrong. I hope you know that. Bloody obvious that Greg really cares for you.” Bloody obvious, too, that Mycroft returned his affections, but John didn’t want to overstep his bounds. He didn’t know Mycroft very well. 

“Well. See you around,” said he, and turned to go.

“Dr. Watson, would you like a ride?”

“No, thank you…need some fresh air. Hope Sherlock gets his act together. Give him my best, yeah?” 

That didn’t sound good. Mycroft watched him, bemused, the wheels of the brown suitcase turning loudly against the pavement.

* * *

“Dr. Stamford,” said Mycroft, safely ensconced in the backseat. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Good to meet you too, sir. And it’s Mike, please, or at least Michael. Is there something the matter with John? Seemed to be in a bit of a tiff.” 

Mycroft didn’t know how to answer that question. It seemed _everyone_ was now ‘in a bit of a tiff’. If chaos was what Sherlock had wanted, he’d certainly achieved it. Mycroft generally despised chaos, but it was perhaps necessary for change. Change that had been a long time coming. 

“Michael, then. I’m not entirely sure…seems to be something in the air,” Mycroft replied after a long pause. 

Sensing his discomfort, Mike gave him a kindly smile and was quiet the rest of the way back. Mycroft was glad of it. 

* * *

Greg, waiting anxiously by the fish tank, perked up immediately at the sound of the opening gate. He rushed out to meet Mycroft, afraid of what he would find. He’d left the Holmes brothers alone in the flat against every instinct he had. Their interactions appeared to be rather explosive, from what he’d seen. And it would be a long, long time before Sherlock would win his forgiveness for what he’d said to Mycroft. That had been _low_ , even given the circumstances. It hadn’t been fair to Mycroft or Greg, at all. He couldn’t imagine what John must be going through. 

“Good afternoon, Greg,” came a tired voice.

“Mycroft!” he cried. 

They’d been married just two days, but something about Mycroft’s hand in his felt like home. 

He chanced a look, breath held.

Mycroft looked—surprisingly okay. Drooping a bit, yes, and his face was drawn. Then again, when _wasn’t_ it? Greg imagined it would be a sight to cherish. But he appeared to be coping, and Mycroft supported himself well enough as the men walked together across the threshold. 

Greg sat Mycroft firmly down on the sofa, placed a waiting glass of passionfruit juice into his hands. 

Mycroft drank gratefully.

“Now,” said Greg sternly. “I let you stay earlier, despite the alarm bells going off in my head. You’ll at least let me debrief you?”

“Yes, D.I. Lestrade.” There was the barest hint of a twinkle in Mycroft’s eye.

“Right,” said Greg. He hadn’t yet actually _prepared_ the debrief…expected more resistance from Mycroft. Good thing he was entirely used to doing them off the cuff at work, then. 

Greg cleared his throat. “What happened after I left?”

“I spoke to Sherlock,” came the evasive reply. “We cleared some issues up.” 

“For example?”

“He felt—betrayed, I think—that he was not informed of the upcoming nuptials. I told him that ‘upcoming’ lasted less than a week, during which time I informed no-one except Anthea. He took it well enough.”  Mycroft phrased it like it had been a polite conversation over tea and biscuits. If Greg knew anything at all about the Holmes brothers, the scene had been anything but.

“Did Sherlock apologise? He damn well better have, or I’m driving you back ‘round myself. It isn’t fair, the way he treats you.” 

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth turned up in a lopsided smile. “He did. I had much to answer for, myself.”

Greg made a rude noise. “Nothing you could ever have done would have warranted—that.” 

He hesitated for a moment, wary. Sherlock had said something in particular that had bothered him, but Greg wasn’t sure it was his place to bring it up. He decided to test the waters. “Mycroft. What Sherlock said about your waistcoat…”

“My ever-loving brother spoke the truth,” Mycroft cut him off, defensive. “You’re an observant man. Surely it was obvious to you.” He looked at Greg as if daring him to agree. 

Greg _had_ noticed it, but that was Mycroft’s business. He personally thought Mycroft wore it well, although he certainly wasn’t about to say so.

There was an uncomfortable pause. Mycroft toyed with his umbrella, and Greg looked to the wriggling garden eels for help. None came.

 _“_ Look,” said Greg finally. “What matters is that you’re healthy and happy. That’s the important bit. Are you?”

Mycroft hummed a little, considering. “I’ve neglected my exercise regime somewhat these months,” he said eventually. “I’d like to start it up again. Other than that—largely healthy and happy, yes.”

They both froze as they realised what he’d just said. Mycroft was the first to smile, and then Greg burst out into chuckles. They laughed like children, not a care in the world, until tears streamed down Greg’s cheeks, and Mycroft started to gasp. It was sorely-needed relief.

When they’d stopped, Greg said soberly that he too had been too busy to work out, and perhaps they might do it together. 

Mycroft’s smile was tentative. “I’d like that,” he said.

They just sat there for a time, watching the yellow boxfish eating some sort of seaweed.

“Sherlock,” Greg remembered suddenly. “Is he safe there alone?”

“Certainly not, which is why Anthea’s with him now.” 

“And John? He was very upset when I left him…asked me not to stay. Did you catch him?” 

Mycroft’s brow creased. “Yes, I did. He seemed unhappy. I believe he’s left Baker Street for a bit.”

Greg sighed. “ _Christ._ They _just_ got married. Was hoping for at least one happy story, out of all this mess. _”_

Mycroft looked sharply at him, with an expression Greg didn’t quite understand. “Indeed,” was all he said, lips pursed.

“Looks like it’s down to us now,” said Greg with a smile. 

It was returned with Mycroft’s own, spreading slowly across his face and lighting it up. “I am hopeful,” he said quietly. 

 


	15. Stirrings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upside of two hundred comments, and nearly as many kudos! Dearest readers, thank you so much for sticking with me through this trial of a fic. This is my first proper venture into fanfiction, and it's had its bumps but I think I can tentatively say it's Coming Along. You've got no idea how much I love hearing from all of you. I'm very grateful to the people who've pointed out mistakes and inconsistencies (my apologies if any remain) as well as everyone who's written kind things and just shared their thoughts on where I'm taking things. It's been a great help. You're all thoroughly lovely - thank you. Please do keep reading and writing, friends <3  
> xx worldofmydevising

 

The grandfather clock had broken down, _again._ Mycroft shot an exasperated glare at the pearly face, wrought-iron hands frozen between eight and nine. It did that more often that he liked to admit—the grandfather clock was by now so run-down that he kept it purely as a matter of sentiment. The infernal thing cost more to maintain than it had ever been worth. 

The silence of the halted pendulum was deafening. How had he not realised it that morning? He could have sworn it had been working—he’d been gratified to receive an update about Sherlock from Anthea at exactly five o’clock, as he’d asked. Perhaps it had been his pocket watch he’d checked…it had been an eventful day. 

Back from Baker Street at half past three, and then a late lunch with Greg. They ordered in, Chinese food from a restaurant Mycroft had passed by but never had cause to enter. Greg had greeted the man on the phone by name, asked after his mother. She’d emigrated to Hong Kong last month, from what Mycroft could gather. There would be a new grandchild this month.

Greg had asked if they could eat sitting on the sofa. “Only proper way to do take-out is in your PJs, in front of the telly. We’re going to have to imagine the bad reality television, but it’d be nice to at least have the couch.” 

Mycroft had never heard of such a thing, but he’d assented with a remarkable lack of trepidation. It was far from the strangest thing Greg had brought up so far—the man had earlier pointed out gleefully that the banister leading to the sitting room would make an excellent slide. He was, apparently, well versed in the safety precautions involved in undertaking such an endeavour. Years of experience, he’d reassured Mycroft confidently. Used to do it as a boy, and then again when it came time for Ella to learn. 

Mycroft had immediately vetoed that idea. The staircase had been lacquered just last Wednesday.

Greg could, however, slide down the stairs from the attic if he so wished. 

Chinese takeaway had proven to be wonderful. Although Mycroft had encountered lemon chicken and plasticky fortune cookies in neither his twenty-two visits to China nor in his seven trips to Macau and Hong Kong, there had been a queer authenticity to the spuriously yellow sauce and paper take-out containers. He’d liked sitting there, answering a barrage of questions about Kerala and Venice and Singapore between readjustments of Greg’s frankly atrocious grasp on the splintering disposable chopsticks.

By the time Greg had been coaxed into telling the story of a trip to Dublin which had started with his mixing up the arrival and departure times on his flight itinerary and ended with Ella’s stroller forgotten in the boot of the cab home, his hold had improved tremendously.

Mycroft had pretended to fix it thrice more anyway. He’d stopped only for fear that Greg would notice he was doing nothing more than gently uncurling Greg’s fingers, resting them briefly in his and then returning them to exactly the same position Greg had so carefully managed on his own. 

Still sprawled comfortably across the sofa the way he’d never done before Greg had moved in, Mycroft hit _send_ on an email informing North Korea that the British government was most certainly not about to waste precious resources investing in a highly dubious drug they’d invented to test the ‘legitimacy’ of the thousands of marriages that had occurred over the past week. He looked fondly at Greg, bent studiously over a case file that had gone neglected over the weekend. 

It would have been an ideal evening had the dratted clock not chosen to spoil, thought Mycroft. He checked his pocket watch.

_That can’t be right._

The time read nine-thirty. Unconvinced, he reached for his mobile phone. It said the same thing. 

Six hours, just talking. Mycroft generally found himself hard-pressed to make conversation for _six minutes._ An uncomfortable prickling sensation across his neck usually made itself known around the twenty-minute mark. Any longer than that, and he immediately texted Anthea to call with a feigned national emergency. 

The last six hours had been entirely painless. They'd been cosy, each successive one slipping by easier than the last. He felt as if he might gladly sit there for another six, and then another. For as long as Greg would let him.

As if on cue, Greg picked that moment to yawn. He stretched languidly, his white cotton shirt lifting a little as he did so. Mycroft’s eyes locked onto the tanned crescent of skin between hem and waistband. There was a faint smattering of fine hair atop the sculpted muscle—Mycroft wondered idly if it was as soft as it looked. There was no more than a third of a meter between them…he could reach out from where he sat to graze his fingers  against Greg’s belly, if he so chose. 

He found himself growing curious. 

“Going to turn in early,” said Greg. He yawned again, fighting to keep his eyelids open. “Join me?”

 Mycroft dragged his gaze from the little brown half-moon as he stood up, hoping the heat on his cheeks wouldn’t give him away. There was nothing especial about Greg Lestrade’s midsection, of course. Nothing remarkable about it _whatsoever._ If there was heat pooling in the pit of his stomach, it was almost certainly a simple side-effect of cheap Chinese food.

But he looked again as Greg did his evening stretches by the side of the bed, and the strange warmth deepened. 

“Good-night,” mumbled Greg as he snuggled into the blankets, face buried in no fewer than three pillows precariously stacked into a tower. Mycroft didn’t know how he slept like that—it looked terribly uncomfortable, although Greg seemed happy enough as he burrowed further into the bedding. “Sweet dreams…” he added, the last word swallowed by a combination of yawn and down pillow. 

“Sweet dreams, Greg. I hope you sleep well.”

* * *

Mycroft awoke to the sound of his name. “Mycroft,” Greg said. “Mycroft!” More urgent, now. It was dark out, the streetlights still lit but just starting to dim. About five thirty in the morning, then, which did not bode well. 

He snapped fully awake at once, trying to remain calm as he mentally catalogued the state of each window and door. 

_All locked._

A panicked seize of Mycroft’s heart. Greg hadn’t seemed ill last night, but the voice crying out was quite clearly distressed.

“Greg,” Mycroft said, anxious. “Is something the matter?”

A small whimper did nothing to assuage his concern. 

Then—

“Mycroft…gorgeous…’s ‘kay. Not…til you’re…ready, darlin’.”

Truly alarmed now, Mycroft turned on the lamp, deftly flicking open a compartment in his wall to reveal a shotgun. 

Greg’s eyes were closed and oscillating gently behind his eyelids. A small smile played around his lips. He reached out, caressed an invisible person on the sheets next to him. 

Oh. 

_Oh._

Mortified, he returned the shotgun to its place in the wall.

Mycroft wasn’t sure what to do. He’d never encountered a situation like this one—nowhere _close._ Would it be more polite to wake the man, or to let him sleep? It sounded like rather a nice dream, if the contented little sighs Greg was now releasing were anything to go by. Mycroft reached out a tentative arm, shook his husband’s shoulder gently. 

No response, other than a happy murmur. 

“Ah…Greg.” Mycroft knew it was pointless, even as he spoke. He’d woken at a similar time yesterday to find half his body dangling off the bed. With effort, Mycroft had rolled Greg in a blanket and deposited him firmly back onto his side of the bed. The man hadn’t so much as stirred.

_I fear the day the fire alarm sounds._

Greg quieted minutes later, but Mycroft lay restlessly beneath the sheets. They’d suddenly become too warm. He kicked his way out from under the silken material, headed quickly for the bathroom where he stroked himself with a businesslike, perfunctory air. 

Mycroft bit his lip as he came, his entire body heaving with the force of his release.  

 


	16. Responsibility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for sexual assault (as part of Greg's line of work).  
> My apologies for the late update, I have been in the Rocky Mountains doing fieldwork with very limited internet and spare time. This also means that updates will be longer (yay!) and somewhat less intelligible (oh no!) as I get more creative with finding little pockets of time to write them in.  
> Thank you, friends - you're all wonderful.

Greg registered the empty space by his side before anything else. He tried not to let it get to him—Mycroft had said yesterday that he’d be up obscenely early for a conference call with North Korea, and not to be alarmed to find him gone. 

Greg had meant to wake with Mycroft,  but he dimly recalled fumbling with his phone as he blearily keyed in the passcode and heard the beeping fade into blissful silence. He wasn’t much for mornings. 

Used to be that he liked them, especially as a boy. Hopeful, then, a fresh start to yesterday’s to-morrow. As the years passed, he’d realised there was indeedto-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow, always 'creeping in its petty pace'.

Monotony was okay—it was livable. It was preferable to unnecessary drama. But the to-morrow he’d always hoped for had never come, not once in fifty fucking years of them. 

He blinked as a piece of light blue paper waved from its spot beneath the lamp on the bedside table. 

Mycroft’s handwriting was a neat, practised cursive. Greg could have identified it in a line-up. The stationery smelled like him, too. Clean and bright, a hint of something spicy.

_Dearest Greg,_

_I apologise for leaving you so early. I couldn’t bear to wake you—you were sleeping so peacefully. I hope the day treats you well. There are refreshments on the kitchen table…aids to starting the week off on the right foot. I’ll be finished at around half past six. Should you like a ride back, you know where to reach me._

_Yours,_

_Mycroft_

It made Greg smile. His da’, on the rare occasions he’d been home, had put little notes in the lunch his mum packed him for school. They’d been written in much the same vein as Mycroft’s…he’d kept every last one through secondary school and uni, hung them all up on his desk with a bit of ragged blue ribon. They’d gotten lost over the years, like the stuffed rabbit Rob had bought nine-year-old Greg with the first five dollars he’d ever earned, and the dear little sculpture of a horse his mum and da’ had brought home after a trip to Brussels. It had been three years since his sister Phil had last written, but he’d used to keep her letters, too. He’d lost a lot in his years with Lisa.

To-day might be a good one. Somehow a little bit of hope always remained. There was a bounce in Greg’s step as he headed for the shower, humming something he’d heard Mycroft playing yesterday. Mycroft had wandered in the direction of the piano a few times throughout the evening, playing a few shy bars here and there before seeming to realise that Greg had been listening. A bit like Sherlock with his violin, except Greg actually _liked_ Mycroft’s music. He wondered if John liked Sherlock’s. He wondered if John would ever hear it again. He hoped so. 

The tune Greg liked had been pretty, but when he’d asked Mycroft what it was called Mycroft had replied with a long Italian name Greg that had promptly forgotten, despite his best efforts to the contrary. Something about the sun shining on the river Ganges, Mycroft had said. He’d ask again later.

 It was all very well remembering something you knew how to spell, but Greg had never been good with other languages. He’d failed out of French after taking it for less than a year, despite his surname. No-one in Greg’s family knew where it had come from…his Mum had spoken a little Irish, and that was about it.  

Feeling peppery after his shower, Greg practically waltzed down the stairs. He tripped on the last one, but it only made him grin. At least no-one had been around to see. 

There was coffee waiting in a thermos on the kitchen table, something better even than the sort they had in the fancy machines at Scotland Yard for when the Chief Super came ‘round. Mycroft had added milk, but no sugar—perfect. Of course it had been. The neatly-packed sandwich next to the thermos had been made just how he liked it, down to the smiley-face of yellow mustard that Greg had put on Mycroft’s yesterday. He’d half-hoped Mycroft wouldn’t notice that…seemed rather childish when you thought about it, but it had been force of habit from packing Ella’s. He’d drawn it on unconsciously—it was the little things that made life what it was. Added a bit of cheer. 

His good mood continued through the ride on the Tube, and Greg nearly skipped into the office, until he caught the ladies at reception looking at him a little strangely. 

Five minutes early, which was ten minutes earlier than he usually made it. Settling happily down at his desk, Greg took five  of the minutes he’d earned to carefully compose a text message.

_Hey…coffee was AMAZING. So was the sandwich, you used my trick! helps put a bit of cheer in life yeah? GL with north korea, even though you dont need it. what arses. but I'm glad were married (: have a fantastic day at work, say hi to anthea and mike x_

He frowned—was that too long? Ella had told him The Rule was that you didn’t send messages wider than two fingers if you were talking to someone you _liked_. Whose fingers, he wanted to know. And was Ella talking to someone _she_ liked? Because he imagined his fingers were more adept at strangling than measuring the propriety of texts. 

He sent it anyway, only hovering for a little while over that last x. They were, after all, married. Well past the stage of sending text kisses. 

In Whitehall, Mycroft smiled as his phone lit up on his desk, but quickly schooled his expression upon hearing his name barked from the screen before him. 

The reply came a little after eleven. 

_I’m very pleased that you enjoyed breakfast. North Korea was painful, but the conference call is at least over. Now to figure out how it actually went…you never know with these things til after. Once lost out on an important treaty on account of a wayward eyebrow…maddening, How is work?_

_-M x_

Greg stared for a moment at the little x, disbelieving. The smile it brought to his face stayed there through three interrogations. 

Although the interrogations had gone rather well—everyone was clamoring to admit their crimes, to-day. There were three drug-traffickers in Security by the time his lunch break rolled around, and Greg had just another to go. If the first three had been any indication, Collin Rowley wouldn’t so much as _try_ to put up a fight. 

Unlikely, but today was a rare lucky day. 

Maybe he ought to smile more often. 

The first thing he did on his lunch break was reply to Mycroft’ s texts. He’d been itching to do it all through interrogations, but there were times when a man just had to concentrate. 

_V. v. good…the criminals are pretty much doing my job for me. Hopefully trend continues. got a big one later on with the suspect from the Rowley case. maybe you remember—domestic abuse a couple months back? looking forward to seeing him behind bars. can I pick you up later? x_

Sally had brought homemade muffins for the office. They were delicious, Greg decided as he munched on a banana and caramel one. 

“Oi, Donovan! Can I have the recipe for the muffins? These are amazing!” Greg called as she walked into the canteen.

Sally _blushed._ Greg had had her as his sergeant for nine years now, straight out of the Academy, and she’d never once blushed.

“I didn’t make them. Mike did, but I’ll ask,” she said, twirling a curly strand of hair around her finger.

“What—Mike Stamford? The bloke you were talking to at John and Sherlock’s wedding.”

The wide smile was the only answer he needed. 

“ _Sally!_ ” Greg said, delighted. “ _Knew_ the both of you were up to something.”

Sally’s smile dimmed a little. “Hadn’t a choice, yeah? Last day before they were about to ship me off to North Korea…figured I’d better bite the bullet. He felt that way, too. It’s nice, so far…but I’m not so sure about it lasting. Marriage Law’s a hell of a way to bollocks everything up. Taking things as they come, for now. How’s the thing with Sherlock’s brother?”

Greg’s brows knitted. He’d hoped Sally would have been young enough to be spared. He was pleased, so far, with his own arrangements—but the situation had been uncommonly cruel to everyone.

Would he and Mycroft _ever_ have started something, if not for the Marriage Law? Was what they had even “something”, or would it crumble once all expectation was removed?

Bloody hell, were they all being Stockholm Syndrome-d into love?

_Now there’s a thought._

It was uncomfortable to think about, although he supposed it had to be examined at some time or other. It was the sort of thing that came back to bite you in the arse, if you didn’t. 

But for now….

Mycroft’s newest text sat warmly in his hand, 

_I’m not surprised. You’re quite terrifying when you’ve a mind to be. Yes, I heard about the Rowley case. The man is a bastard. Reasonably sure he used a multitool. Check in his key pouch. I’d be glad to see you after work. Quarter to seven, outside my office?_

_-M x_

Greg told Sally, beaming, that Mycroft was _fucking great._

Whatever lay ahead was already coming whether they liked it or not. They'd just have to do their best, he imagined. 

It surprised him how much he wanted this to work out. After Lisa—he’d always thought he would have tried again anyway, but in time. Greg had never spiraled so hard in his life as he had with her…hoping day after day that maybe if he tried hard enough things would be different. He’d nearly died trying. She’d left him anyway.

He knew that if not for the Marriage Law, it would never have been Mycroft Holmes. Hell, even with the law it nearly hadn’t been.

He’d toyed with the idea of him and Mycroft more than a few times. Sherlock’s handsome elder brother with a raging power complex—brilliant and mysterious and quite possibly more insane than Sherlock was. As a whole, the man was impossibly appealing and utterly damning.

He’d become less mysterious as Greg had got to know him, but Greg didn’t think he’d ever stop being amazed at how quickly Mycroft’s mind worked.

It was there in his eyes, every single goddamn time Greg looked into them. Something always flickering behind the pools of blue-grey—always at work, whether he was furiously computing something or just letting the deductions fall easily into place. Like one of those perpetual motion machines.

Greg rather imagined that a lesser person would have crumpled under the stress. It intrigued him, but he'd seen from the first that caring about Mycroft would be anyone’s downfall. 

It hadn’t stopped him from doing so. 

As the men had grown closer, Greg had fallen—hard, and despite his best efforts to the contrary. A glass of fine wine, poisoned, that he drained even as the pain grew worse. He was powerless to stop. 

It had hurt, badly, when the man he’d loved quietly for months had walked into his life and essentially announced, stone-cold, that Greg was Second Choice. A marriage of convenience was one thing, but a marriage of convenience to Mycroft Holmes was another entirely.

He’d been so cold and clinical. And Greg, still reeling, had dared to ask if there might be any feeling behind the question. Mycroft had shot him down immediately, without so much as a second thought or a ‘maybe in time’. 

A hard, ugly ‘no’.

“ _You can’t be expecting you’ll be_ courted.”

That final word, bitten out like it was a weakness. Maybe it was. Maybe Greg was a fool for believing still, when everything he’d experienced had taught him otherwise.

An apology, an evening to consider, and Greg had realised that maybe he _had_ been expecting too much at the get-go, from a proposal Mycroft had never chosen to make.

What Mycroft had _meant_ hadn’t been truly awful, if you looked past the delivery. So he’d given it a shot. 

Only—Greg wasn’t sure they were doing what Mycroft had intended exactly. A friendship masquerading as something deeper, he’d understood. Greg would have taken it gladly, after his first hesitance. But it seemed to him that this was _becoming_ something deeper, and whether or not that was just wishful thinking on his part he hadn’t a clue. 

It was a dangerous hope to hold so close to his heart. 

* * *

As Greg licked the last crumbs of muffin from his lips, he went over the Rowley case file in his head. 

The man was an utter _bastard_. They’d been called to his house a number of times by the neighbours—wide and sprawling, with an indoor pool, marble floors and a chandelier. Every time, they’d found his wife Clara huddled on the floor in a dingy room that Greg suspected had been converted from a walk-in closet. She’d been sporting a black eye, last time, and when she’d showed them out she’d walked gingerly, as if it pained her. 

“No problem, sir,” she’d told him, although Greg’s practiced eyes had noted the terror at once. Her eyes flicked to the bedroom adjacent, where Rowley sat leering. “Collin is very good to me. I’ve just had a bad fall.”

Seven bad falls, ostensibly, all of which happened to be prefaced by screaming matches that had been heard from three houses down in the dead of night. 

Collin Rowley ran a large drug cartel, but he always kept his hands just clean enough. Drugs were all very well and good and ubiquitous in any city—Greg himself had dabbed in the softer stuff as a rebellious teenager—but this was a man who ruined lives. Bad enough to deal in methamphetamine and opioids, but Rowley was never quite satisfied with the mundane. No, every few years scores of people would fall violently ill with peculiar symptoms. A number of them had died, last time, under the influence of regular street drugs that had been cut with some sort of experimental substance. They’d always traced it back to Rowley, but he slipped through their hands in court time and time again. That smug look, sitting there staring at Clara with the confidence of someone who owned another’s soul…it made Greg’s skin crawl. He’d seen that look before, during the last legs of his own marriage. Even directed at someone else, it made him want to retch. 

If only his fortune would hold for just one more interrogation. Greg wanted nothing more than to lock Rowley up, far away from his young wife and the rest of society, _forever._

With that thought sharpening his features, Greg strode ominously into the small white room. 

Rowley sat back in his chair, legs crossed and lazily swinging. He didn’t deign to thank Sally when she brought him a glass of water, nor did he look Greg in the eye as he answered his questions. Greg had never wanted to punch someone more. 

What he had in mind, however, would last much longer. 

They'd found the multitool, exactly where Mycroft had predicted. Forensics was on it as they spoke, although Mycroft or Sherlock could no doubt make short work of the evidence far more quickly. The man was singing like a bird. Boredom, most likely—there was only so far you could go running an illicit business and escaping time after time. Greg saw this sort of thing often. The people who committed the most heinous crimes would often go long stretches of time without so much as being taken in for questioning. About forty percent of them cracked eventually, to his estimate. Some did it within weeks, and other waited ’til they were well into old age before ringing up Scotland Yard and confessing to every last little thing they’d ever done. A number of them did it stricken by conscience, but the most atrocious crimes were too often followed by lackadaisical confessions. 

Rowley’s seemed to be the latter.

“Yeah, I hit the bint every so often. Bloody annoying, she is. I work all day, come home to her ugly little face. Can’t even get a fuck out of her, these days.”

Greg wanted to strangle him. He bit his tongue. 

“Do you recall your interactions with her last Tuesday?”

Rowley whistled. “Sure do. Came home, and the bitch had the gall to ask me if I’d give her money for an abortion. No fucking way. That’s _my_ child. She ain’t about to decide what happens to him, I do. So I pounded on her a little. Then  I took her to bed, nice and quiet like, after slipping her a little potion. Bloody furious the next morning, Clara, like a little Tasmanian she-devil. I like a bird who can sing... Lord knows if she railed on me more often I wouldn’t keep the bint shut up all the time.”

Greg had heard enough, and no doubt so had the tapes. You saw a lot, after being in the police half your life. You got used to seeing people’s faces bashed up. Screaming bullets, and dead bodies. The sheer number of rape kits he signed off on, you’d think women couldn’t so much as leave their houses before being violently, horrifically assaulted. 

It never quite got easier, but he was used to it. Been years since he’d lost his cool on the job and had to step out.

He walked out of the room now, leaving Sally to finish things up. Work had long been officially over, anyway—the interview had gone overtime. Greg picked up a lot of overtime. Hopefully what Rowley had said would stick—it was more than they’d ever got out of him, but Greg wouldn’t put it past him not to produce a deus ex machina at the very last second.

 The cigarette was comforting against his lips, and he took a great drag and held it as long as he could. Ella didn’t have to know.

But she’d be disappointed if she found out. _Christ._

Greg dropped the cigarette and ground it out with his foot.

He was rather glad that the day was over, despite the many victories it had held. It had felt odd to wake without Mycroft, to only communicate with a handful of texts throughout the day (delightful though they had been). He’d spent the entire weekend with Mycroft—grown accustomed to his presence. As he considered this, his phone vibrated in his coat. 

_Might we stop by Baker Street before heading home? I’d like to check on Sherlock. If you’d rather not, I can send Mike over to Scotland Yard. Hope you are well._

_—M x_

_course we can..no worries. whatever you need. see you in maybe fifteen x_

* * *

Greg was already waiting by the time Mycroft left the office. He frowned—Greg usually got out a smidge later, although he hadn’t left work early. He wasn’t smiling, either, and there was something tired in his eyes. Something was off. The Rowley case? No, that had gone at least reasonably. If it had been truly awful Greg would have stayed either much later or not at all. 

He could look more closely…or he could ask.

Mycroft rarely chose to speak when he could glean what he needed with a single look, but something in him yearned to be _told._ For Greg to trust him enough to confide in him when things were going less than well.

“How was work?” he asked. Less daring than asking what was wrong outright, but still a step. 

“Not great,” said Greg. “Ready to go? Hope Sherlock’s coping okay.”

That appeared to be a dismissal, but it hadn’t been brusque. It wasn’t uncommon for Greg to answer questions about his own life with as few words as possible. Mycroft had always known him as someone who looked after other people, first and foremost. It was at once frustrating and endearing.

“Oh?” was all Mycroft said, as Mike waved to them from the car. It would be impolite to prod further, but if Greg so wanted to he’d have the chance to speak.

He did, sounding more resigned than Mycroft had ever seen him. “Rowley’s a fucking bastard.”

“Is there something I can do to help? With a few well-placed agents I might have him indisposed before too long.”

Greg kicked at a pebble, scowled into the distance. “No, reasonably sure we got him this time. It’s just—some things can’t be undone, you know? I can work all I like, and put people like him behind bars for the rest of his life…and it won’t matter a whit to the people who’ve already been hurt."

Mycroft turned, reached out tentatively. His arm hovered for a moment before it wrapped Greg in an awkward hug. “It does matter,” he whispered. “Trust me. I promise it does. Because of people like you, they get to go to bed knowing that the Collin Rowleys of the world aren’t roaming the streets. They get to rest, knowing that good, kind men will bend over backwards dealing justice to inhuman scum like him.”

That seemed to help a little. Greg’s brow uncreased, although the tired look remained. “Thanks,” he whispered, his arms tightening around Mycroft’s grey jacket. “I want you to be right. I really do.” 

Mike seemed to pick up on the tension as they sat gripping each other’s hands in the backseat, and he treated them as always with a light, kind touch. They were immediately offered bottles of water, muffins he’d taken to work but hadn’t eaten. 

Greg perked up a little when he saw them. “Sally brought muffins just like these to Scotland Yard. How did you come up with the same recipe?”

Mycroft nearly pointed out that it obviously _had_ been the same recipe, but caught the gleam in Greg’s eyes just in time. 

“Um,” said Mike. “I…gave her some.” 

No, he hadn’t. They’d made them together, most likely sans clothing, judging from the curious position of the batter stain  _under_ Mike’s Oxford shirt.

Mycroft said absolutely nothing, letting his right eyebrow quirk up a sardonic centimeter.

Greg let out a strangled sort of cough.

 


	17. Sun and Moon

Mycroft was somewhat relieved to note that there were only five new bullet-holes in the walls, and that the flat wasn’t a complete shambles. Still chaotic, but he’d have been infinitely more concerned if Sherlock had suddenly taken it into his head to live in complete organisation. He checked the mantle—good. A carefully folded newspaper which seemed to contain some severed body part or other (Mycroft tried not to think too hard about exactly which), and a set of vials to its side. An occupied Sherlock usually meant that some unenvied soul somewhere was currently in extreme distress and/or pain, but Mycroft would take that knowledge if Sherlock at least was thriving.

Sherlock looked briefly up at them as they made their way into the apartment, then returned his gaze to the table before him. On it, he’d set out several newspaper cuttings as well as what appeared to be a videotape of Rowley’s confession. Mycroft wondered if he should be concerned that Sherlock had gained himself access to Scotland Yard’s files without his or Greg’s help. Then again, his brother was fully capable of obtaining an abundance of resources that were far more likely to get him into trouble—if he was content with comparatively simple events like these Mycroft would count it as a blessing.

“What do you think?” Greg was the first to speak, and although his voice retained a shade of the anger he’d displayed on their last visit it was tempered with respect.

Sherlock looked back at him with a neutral expression. “He speaks the truth, and he hasn’t got plans to worm his way out of it. The question is _why?_ ”

“He’s got everything right where he wants it...maybe he got to the top and decided it was time to come down.”

“Spare me your—” Sherlock halted, started again. “Apologies, Lestrade. A reasonable start, but no. Watch his expression closely.”

“Saw it at point blank range this afternoon,” Greg said a little snippily. It was out of character for him, and Mycroft found himself suddenly protective.

“You’ll notice the interviewer’s voice sounds curiously like Greg’s,” he said. “And I believe a further apology is owed.”

Sherlock deflated a little, looked at Greg for a few moments. It hurt Mycroft to see the purple smudges under his eyes, the cheekbones that were sharper than usual. 

“I apologise,” said Sherlock, voice hollow. “I judged you unfairly, and I was blinded by perceived betra— excuse me, perceived betterness.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at this. Sherlock’s casual disregard for rules stretched across a great many disciplines, but never the English language. That had been a shoddy cover-up. Cognizant of his brother’s feelings, however, he said nothing. 

“I made unfounded accusations, and hurt both you and Mycroft grievously. It was a glaring error on my part, and I regret it enormously,” Sherlock finished. It was as sincere an apology as he’d ever given in his _life_ , barring yesterday. There was something chilling about the honesty in his eyes, and Mycroft wasn’t sure he wouldn’t rather have the old Sherlock back. Biting comments might hurt, but that at least was a game Mycroft knew how to play. 

He turned to Greg, unsure.

“’S okay,” Greg said. “Happens, and we needn’t say anything more of it. If Mycroft’s okay so ‘m I.” A kind answer. Mycroft had expected nothing less. 

“What of his expression?” Mycroft steered the conversation into safer waters. 

“Completely flat. Look, his eyes are vacant.”

Mycroft wasn’t convinced. “That doesn’t mean anything on its own.”

The glance Sherlock shot him was less exasperated than usual. “His pupils aren’t reacting to anything. There are changes in lighting…high-stake questions. _Nothing._ ”

“Look,” said Greg. “This is all very well and good, but at the end of the day he’s going to jail and there isn’t anything to be done for it. It’s his wife who needs our help.”

Sherlock considered him for a second, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “I won’t be of much assistance, I’m afraid,” he said eventually. “But you’d do well to ask John.”

Mycroft jerked his head almost imperceptibly at the name. Sherlock had given no indication whatsoever as to how he felt about the doctor’s leaving the premises, and Mycroft wasn’t sure how to feel. Grateful, yes, that Sherlock wasn’t throwing tantrums, but at the same time filled with cold dread. This was not the sort of thing that came without consequence, especially where Sherlock was concerned. 

Greg, too, had his gaze fixed curiously on Sherlock. “John’s left.”

“I know. I am not his keeper.”

“Does it bother you?”

Sherlock slid his eyes away from Greg and slowly towards John’s vacant chair. “Yes. But the world keeps turning. The game goes on.”

That didn’t sound particularly reassuring. That didn’t even sound like _Sherlock._

 _“_ Anthea,” he called. She’d taken up residence in a corner of the room. Mycroft felt slightly guilty, relegating her to Sherlock’s minder for a few days, but then she was of course familiar with worse things. Her fingers paused mid—sentence, and she looked up at once. “Yes, Mr Holmes.”

“Did you find anything yesterday?” He dreaded the answer, but it was a question he had to ask.

“Yes, sir, but only residue. Nothing new today, as of the last hour, and he hasn’t left my sight.”

Sherlock looked meaningfully at Mycroft. “I _really_ haven’t, although if you’d be so kind to instill a policy of privacy during bathroom breaks...”

Mycroft sighed, pressed the points of his fingers into his temples and rubbed as through it would somehow remove the headache of the entire situation. “Fifteen minutes at a time, maximum.”

A small smile graced Sherlock’s lips. “Thank you.”

* * *

 

As soon as the door had closed behind them, Greg said, “Sherlock’s not taking it well. Not at all.”

Mycroft looked at him in surprise. “I thought he seemed reasonably well, given the circumstances. How do you know?”

“ _Exactly_ that,” said Greg. “When has Sherlock ever responded ‘reasonably well’? For him, this is tantamount to complete denial. I’ve never, ever seen him so...docile. People don’t just up and change like that. There’s been a massive shock to his system.”

Mycroft had to admit that he’d thought as much, although he’d tried to chalk it up to overprotectiveness. More than anything, he wanted to know that Sherlock was coping. It was Mycroft’s responsibility, and if he failed...

He couldn’t hide the small tremor of his hand as it lifted the glass of water to his lips. It was drained within seconds, and exchanged for a glass of a vintage Hennessy. Wordlessly, he held a second glass out to Greg, who took it gratefully. 

They sat there in silence for a time. Mycroft found that he couldn’t bear it, and took his half-empty glass to stand against the fish tank. The glass was cool against his forehead, and a lionfish swam up to inspect him, nipping at the water before his cheek.

“What shall we do?” he asked eventually, trying to keep the strain from his voice.

“I think,” Greg said, “he might be in need of the services of a doctor.”

Mycroft nodded, came back to sink down beside Greg on the sofa. 

“And you?” he asked. “You’re—managing? It has been a difficult day, I imagine.”

Greg’s smile was nearly imperceptible. His eyes were arresting in the low light, Mycroft realised. Dark and warm and a little haunting. “Managing, although I’d really rather not.”

It was a sentiment that was familiar to Mycroft. He fought the urge to reach out and graze his fingers against Greg’s eyelid, along his cheekbones.

_What is this? Surely eyelid-touching is not an accepted form of communication, even among lovers._

_Lovers._

Mycroft shivered at the word. Certainly that realm would remain unknown to him. He clutched his cognac in one hand and the fabric of the sofa with the other, and leaned back heavily. 

“Hey,” said Greg, eyes soft and a little concerned. “What about you? You doing okay?”

Mycroft managed only a small nod, averting his eyes and locking it on the lionfish still gazing balefully at him from behind the glass where he’d stood. He started as a warm hand was laid on his cheek, gently guiding his eyes back to Greg’s.

There were centimeters between them. It may as well have been mountains. Mycroft took a deep, trembling breath, and he closed the gap.

* * *

 Soft lips brushed against Greg’s own with the gentlest of pressure. Immediately he felt his senses short-circuit— _God, how long had it been? How long had he yearned and imagined and hoped—_

They reset themselves slowly, connections shuddering into place.

Mycroft’s lips were still there, held tentatively against his own. Greg held the quivering shoulders, firm beneath the initial give, like a lifeline. He reached up into the silky auburn hair, threaded it  through his fingers. His lips parted of their own accord, tenderly claiming Mycroft’s. A jolt of fierce electricity ran through his body. It took all the self-control he had not to deepen the kiss still further, to learn all of Mycroft with his lips. To taste, and never stop. The sweetness was intoxicating.

_How long, since he’d last felt alive?_

At length Mycroft’s lips withdrew, although his forehead remained pressed against Greg’s for a few seconds before that, too, pulled away. His gaze was uncertain, framed by impossibly long lashes. They fluttered closed under Greg’s gentle touch. He felt his heart follow suit, light in his chest.

When Greg finally pulled his fingers away, even as all of him hungered for more, Mycroft said softly, “Was that—okay?”

Only then did he realize, as the shy question in Mycroft’s grey eyes finally registered there in the unearthly glow of the aquarium. 

His heart heaved.

A bittersweet wave of emotion flooded his veins. He’d felt it only once before, as he’d held the day-old Ella in his arms for the first time and watched her sleep. _I’ll always protect you, no matter what. Always be here, I swear it. Always._

Mycroft’s very first kiss, at forty-odd years of age...and he’d gifted it to Greg.

Greg tried to speak, but his throat closed around the words. And so he nodded instead, arms tightening quietly around Mycroft’s waist.

 


	18. Reaching Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a shamefully long time, my apologies! Life has been hectic to say the least. Please don't worry, I've got the entire story planned out and have no intention of ever abandoning it. My program officially starts scarily soon, so though I'm now back from fieldwork I'll be quite busy in the near future. In any case I'll try my best, and your patience is very much appreciated. <3

 

Mycroft was the first to break the silence. He took another great swig of his drink, the amber liquid unsteady in its glass.

“My apologies,” he said. “I shouldn’t have presumed—“

He shouldn’t have, and yet he longed to do it again. He met Greg’s gaze with some effort. Greg was smiling, warm and kind. Something clenched in Mycroft’s chest and then released. 

“Glad you did,” whispered Greg, and pressed a chaste kiss to Mycroft’s cheek. “So glad.” 

Leaning back into the sofa, Mycroft settled against Greg’s shoulder. He let his head rest against Greg’s. A quiet happiness settled over them both. 

Only when Greg’s breathing had settled into a deep, steady rhythm and Mycroft was certain that he’d fallen asleep did he carefully detach himself. He pressed another kiss to Greg’s grey hair—softer than it looked—and gently guided his head onto the armrest. Greg stirred, but only to settle into the sofa with a contented sigh. 

Mycroft stood up. It was nearly eight now…no doubt Greg would be hungry when he woke. 

“My’crft?” mumbled Greg into the cushion supporting his neck. “Come back.” 

Draping a soft blanket over Greg, Mycroft pressed a kiss to his forehead. It smelled of smoke and musk and forests. 

“Be back soon.” 

Greg woke to the heady smell of garlic and parmesan, and they ate their spaghetti across from each other at the dinner table with their knees pressed warmly against each other. 

They slept easily that night, Greg’s arm draped warmly over Mycroft’s waist. Mycroft let it stay there, and he was glad to feel its comforting weight when he woke the next morning.

John Watson was living with Mike Stamford at the moment. Anthea had told him so yesterday. 

Reaching for his phone on the bedside table, Mycroft positioned himself comfortably against the headboard. 

_Dear Dr. Wason,_

_I will see you at your office at ten in the morning—_

And then Mycroft frowned. He didn’t imagine Dr. Watson would take kindly to the summons—likely he’d take particular pains to avoid him. 

Very well, then. 

He pressed his lips lightly to Greg’s forehead, allowing them to linger there for perhaps longer than strictly necessary. Twenty minutes later, and Mycroft left the house with the aroma of coffee in the air and a packed breakfast on the table. 

* * *

Mike, still dressed in sleeping attire, answered the door blearily. 

“Mr. Holmes! You said to be ready by ten to-day, sir. Was that not correct?” he asked curiously, still blinking sleep from his eyes. Mycroft politely averted his eyes from the penguin-patterned pajamas. 

“I was wondering if I might perhaps speak to Dr. Watson.”

Mike looked helplessly into the room behind him, blocking Mycroft’s view with his body.

“He, um—I’m not so sure that’s best at this moment.” 

His loyalty did him credit, but Mycroft wasn’t interested in standing around all morning. 

“It hasn’t got to do with Sherlock,” he said. “Please.” 

At this Mike relented, appearing to decide that his battles were best picked carefully. He nodded, resigned, and called for the doctor.

Dr. Watson appeared in the doorway. He looked _dreadful._ There were dark shadows under his eyes—Mycroft would guess that he hadn’t had more than five hours of sleep across the past two days—and his skin was pale and sallow. His hair was unwashed, and his shirt looked as if it had seen better days. Mycroft could do nothing more than stare in silence for a few seconds. This wasn’t the John Watson he knew.

“Yeah?” said John finally after a long moment. “Tell Sherlock I’m through with his _bullshit._ ”

Mycroft repeated that it had nothing to do with Sherlock. 

“I need your help,” he said, “with a patient.” He relayed the story of Clara Rowley in quick detail, John looking increasingly worried by the second. 

“You’ll check on her, won’t you?” asked Mycroft, a little anxiously. The case obviously worried Greg deeply, and Mycroft didn’t want to see him stressed if it could be helped. 

“Course,” said John, although there was no conviction in his eyes. “I’ll do it.” 

“Excellent,” said Mycroft. “She’ll be here in—“ he checked his pocket watch, “—approximately half a minute. Have you got tea, or shall I put some on?” 

John shook his head disbelievingly. “ _Holmses,_ ” he said, although Mycroft could detect no real heat in his voice. 

The kettle had just started to boil when the doorbell rang. 

All heads turned towards the door at once, and after a second or two John went to open it. The woman who entered was in her early twenties at the very most, judging from her face and physique. Her middle was gently rounded. Although Mycroft was largely unfamiliar with the finer points of obstetrics, he pinned the pregnancy at no more than four months—assuming this was her first, and for her sake he hoped so. 

John ushered her in, offering her the cosiest armchair, and as she lowered herself carefully it occurred to Mycroft that he’d never seen someone look quite so _defeated._

When John offered her tea, a flash of something—suspicion, perhaps—crossed her face, and she’d no sooner started to shake her head _no_ than the expression was replaced with tired apathy and she took it anyway. 

John and Mike exchanged worried looks. Mycroft tried not to notice.

“Mrs Rowley,” John started carefully, and the girl jerked a little. 

“Clara, _please,”_ was all she said. 

John stood up, crossed the floor slowly and crouched beside her. Mycroft saw some of the tension vanish from the stiff lines of her body. John Watson was a good doctor—and he was _kind._ So was Mike Stamford, and he felt that Clara would be in excellent hands indeed. John started to question her softly, moving once in a while to tap this part of her body or that. She submitted, flinching increasingly less with each touch. Mike sat by, a friendly smile on his face, asking the odd question about where she’d grown up and whether she liked animals. He brought out a little white cat, set it in her lap. Her eyes widened as the tiny animal butted its nose inquisitively against the button of her dress. 

Mycroft moved to retrieve his jacket and briefcase. If he hurried he might catch Anthea before she left for Whitehall, and if not he could always call her back anyway. 

He’d just grasped the doorknob when Clara, haltingly, asked, “Were you the gentleman who ‘phoned, sir?” 

He turned, although his umbrella still held the door. “Indeed. My apologies for intruding, but your husband’s case was a concerning one. I imagined that you might have found yourself in need of assistance.” 

Clara looked down, seeking out something in the kitten’s trusting face. She appeared to find it, and turned to Mycroft with tear-glazed eyes. She nodded. 

“Clara,” John said quietly. “You needn’t—it’s not been four months, you said? You might still…no-one would think less of you, if you chose not to proceed.”

She looked up at him, eyes haunted. “But _I_ would,” she whispered, and Mycroft’s heart ached for her in that moment. 

He closed the door quietly. 

* * *

Mycroft returned that evening to carrots, beef and onion simmering merrily on the stove. The strains of Greg’s humming carried lightly from further inside. He inhaled deeply as he walked into the kitchen, allowing the steam to melt away the day’s stress. The meeting with Clara had been harrowing…the video-conferences with China and Italy only less so. The American elections were fast upon them—Mycroft hoped to goodness that the pendulum would swing back towards the direction of sanity, at least—and North Korea would hold their referendum on foreign trade by the end of the week. They did it every year. Mycroft didn’t know why they even bothered, given that their wretched leader invariably countered the results with a wave of his hand. People had opposed the Marriage Law five to one, and yet it had happened. To each their own, he supposed. 

Trying to put global events out of his mind for the time being, he crossed the kitchen floor to find Greg looking doubtfully at his spice rack. 

“Might I inquire as to how my spices have offended you?” Mycroft leaned against the counter, _nearly_ close enough to touch. But not quite. 

Greg, to his credit, echoed the movement, and Mycroft’s nerves flared at the touch of Greg’s shoulder against his.

“They’re not _labelled_ ,” complained Greg. “And it’s hard to pick out the rosemary when there are seven thingums of chopped green leaf.”

Mycroft reached past him, smoothly retrieved the correct vial. “They’re ordered alphabetically, by genus,” he said absently. “I’ll print you a guide.” 

Greg muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Only a fucking _Holmes—_ ” and tipped rather more rosemary into the stew than was strictly necessary. He frowned at the pot. “Does that—?”

Mycroft uncorked a bottle of red wine and poured a liberal splash into the stew. “That’ll fix it, and now we’ve got drinks with dinner.”

“I could kiss you,” said Greg seriously, and Mycroft suggested that he did. 

Their second kiss was better even than the first, and when they finally pulled apart Mycroft blushed and ventured upstairs for a shower. Greg watched his retreating back fondly, smiling into a covert bite of garlic bread. 

* * *

Dinner that night was a quiet affair, although it seemed to Mycroft that there was something electric in the air. Was Greg brushing against him more than usual, or was he just acutely aware of every touch? Greg was immensely handsome in casual wear, Mycroft reflected. The V of his neckline framed the muscled chest perfectly, burgundy cotton deep against the tanned skin of his clavicle.

The stew was delicious—Mycroft would have to relinquish control of the kitchen more often. Greg had waved the compliment off, said that it was all very well cooking a good stew when it was the only thing he _could_ do. It was a very Greglike response, although Mycroft highly doubted its truth. The man seemed a master of a great many trades, as far as he’d seen…and it seemed to Mycroft there was more to be discovered. 

Presently Greg asked what was on Mycroft’s mind, a question which Mycroft most certainly couldn’t answer truthfully without giving rather more of his cards away than he was comfortable with. Instead he stood up and asked if Greg would do him the pleasure of accompanying him outside. He’d checked the back garden before entering the house that evening—Anthea had pulled through. She always did. Mycroft often wondered if he paid her enough. She _seemed_ content, but then one never knew with the girl. 

Greg’s shoulder nudged against Mycroft’s as they walked toward the door. Mycroft made no move to step further away, and neither did Greg. It was a comforting warmth.

Peering through the glass panel in the door, Greg frowned. “I could have sworn there were flowers here yesterday. Pretty ones, too.” 

Mycroft strode past him,  opened the heavy wooden door as far as it would go. “Tulips,” he said, “are toxic for small animals. They contain cyanogenic glycosides, a sort of alkaloid defensive compound that dogs aren’t able to metabolise. What do you think?” 

The workers had done it all that morning. The garden had been stripped away, the plants donated to the greenhouse. Mycroft barely found the time to look after them these days, in any case. The fountain remained, a little fish on its tail from whose mouth water spurted. Dogs liked fountains, he’d heard. A simple obstacle course had been set up next to it…a little kennel in the corner.

Greg just stood there staring at the setup, wide-eyed. “You needn’t have…Mycroft! Seph doesn’t need all this. It must have cost a fortune!” 

It had been his pleasure. Mycroft echoed the words Greg had said to him, that first day in the Jubilee Gardens. It seemed a lifetime ago. It may as well have been. “I needn’t have, but I wanted to.” 

Strong arms flung themselves around Mycroft’s neck and pulled him close. Mycroft breathed in deeply. Greg was starting to smell like home. 

 


	19. Iris

Greg paused outside the gleaming storefront, letting his eyes drift briefly shut while the last embers of his cigarette crumbled to the ground. The fingers of his other hand were clutched tightly around a small box—Mycroft’s ring. A second later, and the door tinkled open to reveal Ivy Keating’s bright eyes. 

“Hiya!” she said, grinning, and Greg was glad for it. Although he deeply enjoyed Mycroft’s company, it couldn’t be denied that the man was _complicated._ Mycroft required care and patience and insight and attention. To give him those things was an honour, Greg felt, but not an easy one. Greg had taken an instant liking to Ivy when he’d met her. Her easy manner and wayward curls had been familiar to him—the sort of person he’d grown up around. He’d spoken to her just that once, but the smile she gave him now was the sort shared only between kindred spirits. 

“How’s your fella?” she asked, inquisitive. “Been a half-month now. Figured when you weren’t back the next day that it must have gone well. Was I right?”

Had it really been two weeks? Already two weeks…or was that _only_ two weeks? They’d felt at once like a lifetime and mere milliseconds. They had been happy weeks, and to Greg that was all that mattered. Greg and Mycroft and now Seph, too. Coffee and a smiley-face sandwich waiting for him on mornings Mycroft wasn’t. Drowsy, contented kisses when he was, and tea together at the little coffee table while they shared a newspaper—although most days Mycroft tended to tell Greg the news even before it’d happened. Evenings outdoors, Seph running happily beside them as Greg taught Mycroft how to explore like someone who’d grown up with the natural world his only playground. 

They’d discovered a lovely old cemetery that doubled as an arboretum. It had been oddly peaceful, and lunch had been a quiet affair under a grand, sprawling oak. Greg had climbed it after, Mycroft wandering nearby collecting specimens in his plant-press for the herbarium in his room. Seph had jumped into the pond, only to be chased by a great black swan and her mate, cygnets whistling from behind the reeds. 

The symphony, one quiet evening, and Benjamin Britten’s _War Requiem_ had torn at his heart. They’d returned the following day for _The Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra,_ and Greg now found himself able to tell a bass clarinet from a bassoon, thanks in large part to Mycroft’s patient coaching. Mycroft had promised a trip to the opera next week, and between Greg and Ella they’d managed to collect six species of caterpillar Mycroft had been keeping an eye out for. Ella had even managed to obtain a Duke of Burgundy—the only species of metalmark in Great Britain. Greg meant to present the caterpillars when they got to ten. Ella was gladly tending them in the meantime…to Rob’s consternation. But Isaac had proclaimed the project an excellent one, and what Isaac said went. In other words, Ella generally got her will, as long as Isaac could be convinced that said will was of educational value. Greg still didn’t know what sort of knowledge could possibly be gleaned from soaking eggs in vinegar and food colouring, but he supposed it was preferable to _throwing_ the eggs around in some sort of extremely messy physics demonstration. 

“He’s good,” Greg told Ivy, finally, as the door closed behind them. Tomas waved from behind the counter, and Greg nodded back with a smile. “Been a lot, but happy. And I just got my paycheck, so I was wondering if I might fix up a stone or two? If you and your da’ have the time today, that is.” 

“Be glad to,” said Ivy, and then she was skipping behind the counter, pulling out tray after tray of stones.“Do you know what you’re after, yet?” 

Greg hesitated. “Have they really—got meanings? Is that a thing?” 

Ivy considered his question for a second. “A lot of them are traditionally associated with specific ideas, yes, although it’s just as well to pick one because you think it’s pretty. Here, why don’t we start from the back? I’ve got iolite, for indigo…and if you’re looking for sentiment we could have a darker piece of rose quartz in place of violet.” As she spoke, she picked two tiny rocks from their cases and held them out to Greg. “What do you think?”

Greg took them carefully, feeling the slight weight of them in his palm. The first was dark purple with a blue tinge to it. It seemed a Mycroftian sort of rock, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on why. Posh, maybe, and a little mysterious. He’d never been particularly superstitious—never subscribed to the idea of objects holding any sort of spiritual power, but holding the rose quartz especially he understood why other people might. It was a deep, dusky pink, just barely translucent. It seemed almost to radiate its own heat, although Greg knew he was just feeling transferred warmth from his own hand.

Even so, he curled his fingers tightly around the rocks. “I’ll take them both.”

“Grand!” proclaimed Ivy, and led him to the counter. “If you’ll wait here with my da’ I’ll be back in just a second…and I’ll do the setting work on the house, like I said. Consider it my donation to the institution of romance.” 

Greg started to protest. “No, I couldn’t—”

Ivy waved him off. “It’s no trouble, and I like doing something nice for a friendly face. Just so long as you promise to come back. And bring your fella with you some day, yeah? Like to meet him. You got a photograph?”

It happened that Greg did, and he brought it up proudly. Mycroft smiled gently at them from the phone screen, momentarily distracted from the plant he’d been identifying. Seph stood next to him, tail high. Greg had taken it just yesterday on their evening walk.

Ivy drew in a deep breath. “He came here too, did you know? Quiet, but he seemed nice. The two of you seem to suit each other.”

Right. He'd forgotten for a second that he and Mycroft had both found the very same shop. Just another thread of fate tying them together. 

Ivy looked up at him, suddenly shy. “He had a lass with him…tall, with brown hair. Pretty. Anthea. Do you know her?”

He read the look in her eyes at once. This Greg hadn’t expected, but he supposed DIs and personal assistants alike had their romances. 

“We’re acquainted, as it happens. Anthea is a formidable woman.”

“Is she…” Ivy toyed with a red strand. “Is she seeing someone?”

Greg had never known Anthea to date, and the ring she’d worn during the week the Marriage Law had passed seemed to make her feelings on the subject clear. “I don’t know if she even _can_ ,” he admitted after a pause. “Hard to tell sometimes, with government types and those in their circle.”

An inscrutable look passed over Ivy’s face. “Suppose that makes sense, then. Be right out.” She disappeared into the back room.

_What was that?_

Before he’d had a chance to consider the matter further, Tomas was reaching out to clap him heartily on the shoulder. 

“Thought I knew who your ring was for, the second you walked in,” he confided. “Helped that he picked one that was exactly you. Fifty-odd years of selling engagement rings, and you learn to pair the couples. You’ve been happy together?”

Greg felt colour rise in his cheeks. It wasn’t unpleasant, the idea that people might look at him and see Mycroft. Two parts of a bigger picture…somewhere he belonged. Someone he belonged to. 

He nodded. “Very happy.” 

Tomas smiled, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Ivy came back out just then, the shadow over her face gone now. Greg wondered if he’d only imagined it. 

“Here you are,” she said brightly. “Come ‘round with him sometime, won’t you?”

Greg promised he would. He thanked Tomas and Ivy for their time, making a mental note to check in with Anthea, and then he was once again alone on the streets of London. 

* * *

Greg found Mycroft on his customary perch in the living room, typing furiously away in front of the fish. He looked up at the sound of the opening door and smiled. 

“You’re back late,” he said, sounding faintly concerned. “I’m glad you’re safe.” 

Greg slid him a teasing look. “I’m a copper, remember? I can take care of myself.”

“Even so. Forgive me for worrying. Suppose it comes as a side effect of—caring. Come sit by me? I’m very nearly done, and then we could perhaps take a walk before dinner. Your pick, this time.”

Mycroft’s body was soft and warm against Greg’s. He sighed contentedly, letting his eyes drift shut. 

The next thing Greg registered was Mycroft shaking his shoulder gently. 

“Are you still up for a walk?” asked Mycroft. “Or maybe we’d best stay in, tonight. You look exhausted.”

Greg sat up. “Tired, yeah. Long day. But I’d like to go out. Got picnic stuff in the fridge, you game?”

Mycroft chuckled, deep and easy. “I’d _wondered_ what you’d intended to do with what must be a half-kilogram of egg salad.” 

“Just a quarter,” retorted Greg. “And I _like_ egg salad. And I know you do, because nearly half of it disappeared last I made it.” 

There was no more teasing about egg salad as they sat by a brook to eat, although there was plenty about Greg’s singular inability to butcher the pronunciation of Latin species names.  Greg didn’t see why people had to use both Latin and common names—couldn’t they pick one and be done with it? He got Mycroft back by pointing out that his language abilities, though they didn’t extend to Latin, _did_ include any number of creative and potent insults in a variety of languages. Mycroft, listening delightedly, admitted defeat. 

Greg trailed his fingers in the cool water. “I brought your ring. Thanks for lending it to me.”

Mycroft’s hand wrapped around his own before scooping up a water strider. “You know I was perfectly content with the zirconia.” Hands still cupped, he returned the insect to the surface of the water, where it proceeded to swim away in a sea of ripples. As they watched, it was joined by another strider. This one didn’t ripple, and when Greg asked why Mycroft explained that the males tended to use ripples as a courtship signal. Sure enough, the female proceeded to lower its abdomen and submit to the mounting male. 

“They’ll stay attached for the rest of the mating season,” said Mycroft. “The monogamy ensures that this male is the only one to fertilise her eggs.”

“What of our monogamy?” Greg couldn’t help but ask. “You’re going to lay claim to my eggs, too?” Mycroft laughed, and his hand once again found Greg’s. “Just your company,” he said, and squeezed.

Greg felt colour rise in his cheeks. He reached for the box in his pocket and opened it for Mycroft to see. 

“Rose quartz, and is that iolite?” Mycroft asked with interest.

“Got it in one. Ivy and Tomas explained a bit about the meaning behind them, though it’s silly.” 

Mycroft slid it on, and then held tightly to Greg’s hand. “I don’t think so. I—wish the same, for you.”

“I know,” said Greg, and they sat like that til the sun set. 

 


End file.
